


Still, Like Dust

by Sita_Z



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Hurt Jim, Hurt Spock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Please mind the warnings for individual chapters, Psychological Trauma, Slavery, Slow Build, Teenage characters, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Language, Vulcans, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 51,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sita_Z/pseuds/Sita_Z
Summary: Vulcans have been enslaved on Earth for more than fifty years. To Jim Kirk, 14, this is just one more chapter from his history book… until his uncle brings home a Vulcan boy to help on the farm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a long one! Please note that the story deals with slavery, and all the dark themes that implies. I haven't added general warnings so as not to give away the plot, but of course, detailed warnings will be added to individual chapters.
> 
> The title is taken from the poem "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou.

From ‘Modern History – A Student’s Guide’

Grade 10, Level A – Advanced

issued 09/01/2245 Standard Time, to J.T. Kirk, Riverside High

Chapter 4: Human-Alien Relations

_… a prime example of human resourcefulness is the case of 40 Eridani A’s second planet, commonly called Vulcan._

_In 2189, a broadband distress call reached the USS Salieri, which was patrolling the system at the time. After deciphering the message, a remarkable feat given that their Universal Translator was a mere prototype, the crew reported back to Central Command on Earth. When President Atout learned that Vulcan was threatened by a planetwide drought, he sent out a fleet of ships to aid the destitute aliens. It soon became clear that large parts of Vulcan were no longer inhabitable. The only way to save the indigenous population of these areas was to collect them and take them back to a safe haven on Earth. While relocated against their will, the Vulcans soon thrived under human tutelage and supervision._

**_A side note by the author_** : Any student of modern history will be aware that there have been voices clamoring for the Vulcans’ emancipation ever since they arrived on Earth. It is our human instinct to strive for universal freedom, yet we should be careful in judging a non-human species by our own standards. Studies have proven that the Vulcan mind, while capable of complex calculation and memorization, is rigid and inflexible compared to the human intellect. Much like a highly advanced computer or, indeed, a very clever animal, a Vulcan will never truly achieve sentience. Hence their immovable subordination to an ideology of logic, which is nothing but a very complicated set of rules to govern every conceivable situation. Vulcans cannot function without an external code of behavior, liberating them from the arduous task of making autonomous decisions – and who better to provide these rules than a more advanced and morally aware species? It is, in fact, our responsibility not to abandon these aliens to their fate, or, as certain groups postulate, return them to a homeworld where they would surely perish without our patronage.

** Class Discussion ** **: Analyze a scenario in which the Atout administration offered no aid to the Vulcans. What possible outcomes can be expected?**

** Essay Assignment ** **: How did the rescued Vulcans benefit from human guidance? Your essay should be 1000-1200 words long, using a variety of sources to make your argument compelling.**

###

“What do I have to do to get through to you?”

Jim was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He had no intention of answering the question; not, he knew, that his uncle expected an answer.

Frank sighed heavily. “You want them to expel you? Is that what you want?”

_Yes_ , would have been an honest reply, but Jim kept silent. Frank was the grandmaster of rhetorical questions, and he didn’t respond well if Jim ‘got sassy’ with him.

“This is the third time you’ve skipped homeroom this week. What the fuck is so important that you can’t show your face at school?”

“What do they care? I do the assignments, I get the grades. Top five percent. Why do I have to _be_ there every fucking day?”

“Because I say so!” Frank shouted. There were red patches on his neck, a sure sign that it was better to stay out of arm’s reach. “I’m sick of getting calls every week because my fucking nephew can’t get his shit together. I’ve got better things to do than talking to your teachers every other day!”

“What things?” Jim said before he could think. Frank got up from his chair, and although Jim ducked, he couldn’t quite escape the blow aimed at his face. His cheek stung.

“Watch your mouth, you little shit. You’re living in my house, eating my food, and you’ll do what I say. Now get the fuck out of here, and if you’re not at school tomorrow, I’ll whoop your ass!”

Jim left, biting down hard on his lip. He was fourteen years old, and he wasn’t going to cry because of stupid-ass Frank. As he went up the stairs, he heard the door of the stasis unit open and close. There would be a can of lager now, he knew, and then another, and then a shot of whiskey or three. At least when he was drunk, Frank no longer cared if Jim’s teachers whined about him not being at school.

Jim heard the faint hiss as the can was opened, and then his uncle’s voice drifted up the stairs. “And clean the goddamn bathroom like I told you! This place looks a mess.”

This was true. There were only two of them living here since Sam had left, and if Jim didn’t pick up a dust rag now and then, no one did. Frank was too busy maintaining the harvesting computers (and getting drunk), and Mom hadn’t been back for two and a half years now. If Frank was to be believed, she wouldn’t be back at all. _“Which means I’m stuck with my idiot nephew for good. Just my luck.”_

Jim went to his room to get his padd, stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans before he slipped the plugs into his ears. _The Beast in the Street_ blasted full volume from the tiny speakers, loud enough to drown out everything else. He’d played it on his music player until Frank had smashed the old thing against the wall in a fit of rage. The padd’s sound wasn’t as good, but it had the added benefit of deafening him against his uncle’s voice.

Pushing aside his school padds, Jim sat down on his bed. If he went to school tomorrow, he’d better finish that stupid history essay Mr. Boyle had assigned them. He knew it was going to take him all of ten minutes, cobbling together the boring bullshit that was every damn history essay he’d ever written. Something about Vulcans for a change, Mr. Boyle’s favorite topic. Andy had drawn a cartoon of the man once – Boyle with pointy ears, slanted eyebrows and a speech bubble saying ‘Homework is logical’. Boyle had actually spit with anger when he’d seen it.

Jim dug through his bag until he came across a crumpled carton, which he’d hidden deep down under his school shit. He shook out one of the smokes, inserted it between his lips and lit the lighter. If Frank was drunk, he wasn’t going to smell anything. And he needed something to calm himself down before he started on Boyle’s essay. If he didn’t, he’d hand in another ‘childishly provocative’ paper, something about guerilla Vulcans with Che Guevara bandanas laying low in Iowa’s cornfields and waiting for the right moment to start a revolution. Then Boyle would call Frank. And Frank would whoop his ass. This, Jim didn’t doubt.

_The Beast_ screamed into his ears, and the smoke filled his head and calmed his nerves, as he’d known it would. There had been times when he hadn’t slept for two nights in a row, feeling too tense, too wired to do so. Smoking had changed that. Now he could sleep if he wanted to. There were times when he didn’t.

_‘I don’t give a shit if you don’t get it/ listen and I won’t tell you a fucking thing_ ,’ _The Beast_ roared and Jim felt himself gradually relax. Maybe he’d even clean the bathroom later. It could still be a good day.


	2. Chapter 2

When Jim got home from school the next day, there was a post-it note on the stasis unit: _Be back later. Clean out the pantry and water the lawn. Left-over Thai in the stasis. Frank._

Jim opened the stasis unit, and sure enough, there was a half-full carton of Frank’s favorite hangover food sitting on the top shelf. The Thai place they usually ordered from did a decent Pad Kra Pao, and Frank had even left him some of the chicken. Jim recognized a peace offering when he saw one. Frank usually felt guilty after hitting him (if he remembered doing so – sometimes he didn’t). That way, Jim often got to have take-out for dinner.

He grabbed the carton, a fork and went to sit outside on the porch. The Pad Kra Pao was still hot, and Jim was glad he’d repaired the stasis unit after waiting for two months for Frank to call the maintenance service. He’d had to order one of the parts online using Frank’s credit card, but he thought that it was only fair, given that Frank had saved on paying the mechanic. Frank had looked somewhat surprised when the unit’s light was back on, but he had said nothing, and had merely dragged his beer cans from the ice water bucket on the porch back into stasis. Heaven forbid Frank Henke should have to drink a warm beer.

Something soft touched Jim’s leg, and he looked down to see The King rubbing his fat head on his shins.

“You want some, don’t you.”

Obediently, Jim picked a piece of chicken out of his dinner and held it out to The King, who gobbled it down in a matter of seconds. The King had appeared on the farm five months ago, and had stayed, regally ignoring Frank’s attempts to drive him away. Jim liked the huge tom, who had his own ideas about people trying to get too close. Frank’s hand had bled quite profusely.

The King ate two more pieces of chicken and then left, probably off to murder a few mice in the barn. This was Frank’s reasoning why he had let the cat stay (other than that he was scared) – “at least he’ll take care of the vermin”.

Jim ate the rest of his dinner and thought about school today. It really made no sense for him to go there, and it frustrated him to no end that none of the adults in his life seemed to understand that. He didn’t have to listen to the teachers to understand shit – he took one glance at the textbook and just _did_. He’d be fine if they just handed him the padds and the assignments at the beginning of the year, and left him to do them on his own. There were times when he was bored almost to tears during class, so much that he’d started translating the text book into Spanish. Ms. Harvey had yelled at him, Frank had yelled at him and taken his games console away. It wasn’t his fault that school was so damn _useless_. Or that his classmates were starting to resent him because he didn’t even have to try.

Jim lit himself a smoke, staring out on the cornfields and the harvesting automatons in the distance. When they were little, Sam and he would pretend that they were Earthfleet explorers and the automatons evil alien invaders. Sam had always insisted on being Captain and rescuing Jim when he was hurt. Jim had to tell him to ‘leave me and finish the mission’, and Sam would refuse and drag him back to the ship under enemy fire. ‘I’m not leaving my men behind,’ was his favorite line.

Then, of course, Sam had left anyway. Jim even understood why, kind of. That didn’t mean he wasn’t mad.

He crushed his smoke on the porch planks, flicked the butt into the grass and got up. If Frank wanted the pantry cleaned out, he’d better get to it. The pantry was a small room behind the kitchen, and at some point it might have been used to store food, but now it was filled with all kinds of shit Frank and he had thrown in there. Last time Jim had been in there, he’d seen a few cockroaches scurrying around. Maybe he should send The King in first, in case there were worse things lurking under the piles of junk.

It was disgusting work, but Jim got it done, dragging the old boxes, crates, pieces of machinery and whatnot out of the room and to Frank’s industrial garbage disposal. There was a certain satisfaction in watching the stuff go down the chute and shredded to tiny pieces. He should have done this a long time ago. The only thing he kept was an old lawn chair that Mom used to sit in. He could set it up on the porch, maybe put a blanket on it for The King to sleep on.

When he was done, the pantry wasn’t exactly clean, but the cockroaches and the junk were gone. Jim considered mopping the floor, and decided against it. If Frank wanted this place empty for whatever purpose of his own, that was fine, but he could clean it himself.

Jim went back outside and took the hose off its hook. Frank didn’t much care if the house looked a mess, but he was particular about his lawn, for some reason. At this day and age, Iowa in August was a pretty dry place, and Jim had to water the damn thing every day to keep it nice and green, the way his uncle insisted it should look. Jim’s objection that no one would see it except for the two of them had been ignored.

His earplugs in place and _The Beast_ on full blast, Jim was starting on the second half of the lawn when he saw an aircar approaching. He knew even at this distance that it was Frank; hardly anyone else ever came out here, and besides, Frank still hadn’t had the car’s hydro-converter fixed. The resulting cloud of dark exhaust gas was a dead giveaway.

Lazily waving the hose back and forth, Jim watched as Frank parked the dusty AirVan in its usual spot. Maybe he should try and fix the car himself; not that he cared much if Frank’s ride broke down, but it was sure to put his uncle in a black mood for days. Which was something Jim liked to avoid if possible.

Distracted, Jim didn’t even notice at first that Frank was not alone in the car. It was only when his uncle got out, stuck his head back in through the open passenger window and said something that he saw the silhouette of a person on the passenger seat. Jim frowned. It had been ages since Frank had brought home a ‘lady friend’. In fact, Jim could only remember two occasions when that had happened, and there had never been a second visit after the first.

When the person got out of the car, Jim almost lost control of the hose, and had to grip it harder not to give them all an involuntary shower. The person was not a woman, but a boy.

A Vulcan boy.

He was slightly taller than Jim, with black hair and those strange, pointy ears that reminded Jim of elves in fantasy holomovies. Apart from the ears, the boy didn’t look much like an Elven warrior. He was pale and very skinny, far too skinny for his baggy old sweater and the shabby jeans he was wearing. His dark hair hung into his eyes, and he didn’t look up, just stood there as Frank closed the door of the car behind him.

Jim turned off the hose and pulled out the earplugs. Dangling on his chest, _The Beast_ was now dimmed down to a dull roar. “Frank, what’s going on?”

Frank turned to look at him. “Oh, it’s you.”

_Who else would it be?_ Jim didn’t say. He was still staring at the Vulcan. The Vulcan was still staring at his dirty old sneakers, as if he’d never seen anything more fascinating.

“Who is this?” Jim asked. It felt strange to talk about the boy as if he wasn’t even there, but the boy seemed to be pretending just that. Besides, Jim wasn’t sure if Vulcans could even talk like normal people. He supposed so, but then, he’d never spoken to one in person.

“His name’s Spock,” Frank said.

“And…?” Jim asked when no further information was forthcoming.

“And he’s going to be helping round the house and the farm,” Frank said impatiently. “I barely manage as it is.”

“Where is his stuff?” Jim asked, and immediately felt like an idiot. As if it mattered whether the strange alien being standing in their driveway had any luggage. Jim didn’t even know if Vulcans possessed such things… if they were allowed any.

“He has no stuff,” Frank said. “Why don’t you stop asking stupid questions and take him inside. I want to take a look at that hydro-converter.”

“But-”

“Now,” Frank snapped, and Jim knew better than to argue. He looked at the boy, who was still standing there as if none of this concerned him in the slightest.

“Uh… d’you wanna go inside?”

Frank rolled his eyes, and Jim felt his cheeks grow warm. He had no idea how you were supposed to talk to Vulcans. Maybe you didn’t really talk at all, just ordered them around.

Spock solved his dilemma by setting off towards the house, walking slowly without looking back at either of them. Jim hurried to catch up and lead the way up the porch stairs.

“This way.” He held open the screen door.

Spock went inside without acknowledging Jim at all. He took one brief look around the kitchen, then went back to playing statue – head down, hands folded, shaggy bangs hanging down and concealing his eyes. Like a robot awaiting its next order, Jim thought. It was beyond weird, and Jim had the sudden impulse to do _something_ to make the boy react.

“D’you like iced tea?”

At that, the Vulcan raised his head. It was the first time Jim saw his eyes – dark, hollow, and incredibly sad, somehow – and it did away with his idea that the Vulcan might not even understand him like a human would. A robot didn’t have eyes like that.

“I do not know, sir.” Spock’s voice was quiet and hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. Jim tried to grapple with the fact that he had just been called ‘sir’ by someone clearly his own age.

“Uh, have you tried it before? It’s, uh, it’s like tea, only cold and kind of sweet.” Jim felt himself blush again, he was babbling like an idiot. He wasn’t used to having an alien in the kitchen.

“I have not, sir,” Spock said.

“I’ll make us some,” Jim said, relieved to have something to do with his hands. He opened the dishwasher to take out two glasses, then got the bottle from the stasis unit.

“You want ice?”

“I have no preference, sir.”

Jim bit his lip. “Um, you don’t have to call me that, you know. I’m Jim.”

Spock said nothing to this, and Jim wondered, embarrassed, if he’d made an idiot out of himself. He poured iced tea into the two glasses, added ice and straws and held one out to Spock. The Vulcan boy took it carefully.

There was a long moment of silence, then: “What is the purpose of this object?”

Spock was looking at the straw.

Jim smiled. “It’s for cold drinks. If you drink it just like that, it’ll give you brainfreeze. Uh, like, pain in your head,” he added, when he saw that Spock didn’t understand the word. “Look.” He demonstrated how to drink with a straw. “It’s much better this way.”

Spock tried, and his eyes widened slightly.

“D’you like it?” Jim asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Jim had a feeling that Spock would have given the same answer even if the iced tea had tasted like engine oil. For all Jim knew, maybe it did to Vulcans.

“You don’t have to-” he began, but broke off when the screen door opened. Frank came in, looking as sulky as Jim had known he would after inspecting the hydro converter. He took one look at the two of them, and his face scrunched up as if he’d seen something extremely disgusting (which, given the state of their kitchen, was entirely possible).

“Oh my _God_ , Jim!”

Before Jim knew what was happening, Frank had grabbed the glass from Spock’s hand, dumped its contents into the sink and thrown it into the trash.

“ _Don’t_ let him use our dishes, for God’s sake!”

Jim blinked, dumbfounded. “Why not?”

“He’s a _Vulcan_ ,” Frank said, as if that explained everything. “He’ll get his own bowl.”

_He’s not a dog_ , Jim wanted to say, but at the look on Frank’s face, he decided not to. Maybe Vulcans carried some kind of alien germs that could hurt humans. It was only one item on the long list of things Jim didn’t know about the strange alien boy, who had reverted to his former position of staring at the floor.

“There’s that old mattress in Sam’s room,” Frank said. “Go get it and put it in the pantry.”

“The floor’s dirty-”

“Then he can clean it,” Frank interrupted him. “There’s a lot of cleaning for him to do. Now go get that mattress.”

With a glance at Spock, who still hadn’t moved, Jim left the kitchen and went up to Sam’s old room. The mattress was leaning against Sam’s wardrobe, one of the many items in their household that had been put in a random place and then forgotten. There were some stains on it, none of them too suspicious – Jim guessed that they were chocolate, from when Sam and he had shared a stolen candy bar at bed time. He dragged the mattress down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Frank moved his head at Spock, a silent order, and the Vulcan boy took the mattress from Jim, carrying it as if it weighed nothing at all.

“In there.” Frank directed him into the pantry and to the corner under the tiny window. “This is where you’ll sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Spock said quietly.

“I’ll get you a pillow and some blankets,” Jim offered, ignoring Frank’s annoyed look. He got said items from the living room and put them down on Spock’s makeshift ‘bed’. It still didn’t look very inviting.

“Now,” Frank said to the boy. “The laundry room’s next door. There’s a toilet and a shower in the back. That’s what you’ll use. If I catch you in one of the bathrooms, unless it’s for cleaning, I’ll whip your ass, understand?”

Jim understood very well, and it seemed that Spock did, too. “Yes, sir.”

“Come here,” Frank said, taking something from his pocket. Spock approached him slowly, although Jim could see that he didn’t want to. When Frank raised the item he was holding, the Vulcan boy flinched back.

“Keep still.” The thing in Frank’s hand went around Spock’s neck, locking with a small beep. It was a collar, Jim realized. Almost exactly like a dog collar, except for the fact that there was no visible clasp to open it.

“This is programmed to the parameters of this farm and the fields,” Frank said. “Not a step further. You know what’ll happen otherwise.”

“What’ll happen?” Jim asked his uncle, who looked annoyed.

“It’ll knock him out and then some, if you have to know,” he said. “Which is nothing compared to the trouble he’ll be in when I find him.”

One of Spock’s slim hands came up and touched the collar, slipping a cautious finger underneath it as if to test its elasticity. Jim wondered what it felt like to wear such a thing, to have some adult alien come up to him and fit him with a collar like a dog. He couldn’t imagine it, but then, maybe it was perfectly normal to Vulcan kids.

Spock didn’t seem very perturbed, in any case.

“Now,” Frank said. “I take it you know how to clean?”

“Yes, sir,” came the quiet reply.

“Good. You can start with the kitchen, it looks a mess. Jim will show you were the cleaning supplies are at.”

“Yes sir.”

Looking at Spock, Jim wondered if the boy ever got tired of saying those words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to update regularly (every two or three days, depending on how my editing comes along).
> 
> Let me know what you think?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very happy about the positive response to this story! 
> 
> The Vulcan words and phrases in this chapter (and the following chapters) are based on the Vulcan Language Dictionary (VLD), which can be found online. In this chapter, no translations will be provided to keep with Jim's POV; in later chapters, the translations will be put in [...]. The Vulcan grammar I used is of my own invention, and I apologize for any inconsistencies.
> 
> Enjoy!

Spock worked wonders with the kitchen. Even Frank looked impressed when he saw the final result, which was saying something.

The place had been in a disgusting state – unwashed dishes piling in the dirty sink, the cupboards and the counter top covered in a film of grease, cobwebs gathering in every corner. After Jim had given him the cleaning supplies, Spock had methodically set to work, with the air of someone who knows exactly what they are doing. Jim had left after a few minutes, feeling uncomfortable sitting at the kitchen table and watching the other boy at his task, even though Spock had ignored him completely.

When he came back two hours later, he felt as if he’d stepped into a completely different room. The sink and the counter gleamed, and the old-fashioned gas stove was, for the first time ever, completely free of black grease (Jim hadn’t even known that the surface underneath the dirt was actually white). The counter top had been wiped clean and all the cooking utensils had been hung neatly on hooks on the wall. No dirty dishes, no food stains or crumbs anywhere, and even a stain-free table cloth neatly in place.

Jim simply stared for a moment, then turned to the Vulcan boy, who was busy wiping the inside of the cutlery drawer with some kind of hygienic solution. Its contents had been cleaned, carefully sorted and laid out to be returned into their slots.

“Wow, how’d you do that?”

Spock looked at him, expression blank. “I am afraid I do not understand, sir.”

“I mean…” Jim gestured at the room, which had been transformed into… a nice clean kitchen, something hitherto unobserved in the Kirk-Henke household. “This looks... great. You did a great job.”

It felt strange, telling this to a boy his own age, but Spock merely bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, sir.”

Jim leaned against the door frame and watched as the Vulcan boy started on the next drawer. “You don’t have to call me that, you know. ‘Sir’.”

“You are human,” Spock said without looking at him. “I am required to address you in a respectful manner.”

Jim didn’t know what to say to this. Spock seemed to know exactly what he was talking about.

“How old are you?” he asked, mostly to avoid the subject at hand.

“I am fifteen years, two months and eleven point five days,” Spock replied, and then, with a pointed glance at Jim: “Sir.”

“Eleven point five days. That’s a little vague, don’t you think?”

“With all due respect, sir, I do not.”

Jim was beginning to enjoy this. “Well, why do you-”

“Jim!” Frank’s voice came from behind him, sounding annoyed. “What are you doing?”

Jim shrugged. “Just talking to Spock.”

“Well, don’t. Spock’s got work to do.”

“He’s almost done.”

“I don’t think s-“ Frank trailed off when his eyes fell on the spotless kitchen. “Oh. That does look pretty clean.”

“I told you,” Jim couldn’t resist saying, earning himself a glare from his uncle.

Spock, meanwhile, had finished with the last drawer and was gathering up the cleaning supplies.

“Put those away, and then come back here,” Frank said. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Yes sir.”

Jim watched as Frank took an old cereal bowl out of the cupboard and began to cut up an apple, followed by two carrots and a few dry pieces of toast.

“Do Vulcans eat that kind of stuff?”

“He’ll eat what I give him,” Frank said. He put a plastic bottle of water next to the bowl and nodded at Spock, who had just come back.

“This is for you. Go wash up where I told you, and then take it to your room. That’s where you eat, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” As silently as he seemed to do everything, Spock disappeared into laundry room, to ‘his’ toilet and shower.

“He doesn’t have any clothes to change into,” Jim said, apropos of nothing.

Frank shrugged. “He can have some of Sam’s old stuff, I guess. Didn’t exactly come with a wardrobe full of designer clothes, that one. ”

Jim knew, of course, that Frank had bought the Vulcan boy, had paid for him like you paid for a bike or a new holoplayer. That was how it worked with Vulcans. Under Earth law, they were commodities, and could be sold and purchased like any other article.

“How much did you pay for him?” He felt strange to be asking this, even though it was a perfectly valid question. Spock seemed so much like a _person_ , though.

“Let’s just say he was a good deal.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t matter. He just was, which is why I could afford him despite the fact that my dear sister left me with her sons to support.”

Jim knew better than to ask any further (or point out that Sam hadn’t been Frank’s to support for almost two years now). If Frank got started on the topic of Winona Kirk and her entitlement in leaving her sons with her hardworking brother, he’d work himself into another drinking rage.

Spock came back and took his food into the pantry, where Jim could see him sitting cross-legged on his mattress as he ate. Frank grabbed himself a pizza from the stasis unit and disappeared into the living room, and Jim was left sitting at the kitchen table with his sandwich, feeling stupid.

Well, at least he had _The Beast_ for company. A family dinner was not in the cards in the Kirk-Henke household, and their latest Vulcan addition wasn’t going to change that.

###

In the course of the following week, Jim skipped school twice, stole four packs of cigarettes from the store, illegally downloaded six holomovies, two of which were NC-17, and got used to seeing a cleaning-obsessed Vulcan teenager around the house.

To be fair, Spock didn’t have much of a choice. Frank had taken to the comfort of living in a clean home, and Jim had to admit that it was nice, not stumbling over shit and being able to actually see something when you looked out the window. So, Spock cleaned, and when he was done, Frank found a new job for him to do. It turned out that Spock knew how to cook – normal, human dishes, even – and while Frank was unwilling to let a Vulcan use his dishes, he had no objection to a home-cooked meal prepared by alien hands. Jim thought that this was pretty illogical, and that Spock must be thinking the same thing, but he knew better than to mention it. It felt strange, though, eating a meal the Vulcan boy had cooked while Spock himself wasn’t allowed at the table with them. When they were done, Frank scraped the leftovers into Spock’s bowl (if there were any; if not, it was carrots and bread that night). Sometimes Spock left his food untouched. Jim noticed, eventually, that Spock never ate anything containing meat, and after that he always left a helping of some meatless side dish on his plate. Spock never said anything, but the food disappeared, so he must be eating it.

Frank had installed an electronic lock on the pantry door, which was locked every night without exception. “What if he has to go?” Jim asked, ignoring the look Spock shot him. After that, Spock was given a bucket ‘just in case’, but he never seemed to use it.

Jim had to admit that he was fascinated by the Vulcan. Spock was an alien kid, a slave, alone in a world that regarded him as a mere piece of chattel, and yet he seemed to have a certain… dignity. Even when he was on his knees scrubbing the bathroom floor, his movements were sure and smooth, and his face never betrayed how he felt about the menial tasks he had to do. Sometimes there was a flicker of fear (mostly when Frank was in the vicinity) or annoyance when Jim trailed crumbs across the floor, but most of the time, he gave nothing away. Jim wondered, even, if there was anything hidden behind that blank mask of a face, or if there was simply nothing there. It could be possible. Spock was not human, after all.

The King eventually solved that mystery for him. Getting home from school, Jim didn’t even see Spock at first, his thoughts preoccupied with Ms Harvey and the letter she had threatened to send _. ‘I don’t know what to do with you anymore, Jim. I really don’t. If a suspension is the only way to get through to you…’_

Jim didn’t mind the suspension, but it would be accompanied by a message from the school. Maybe he could hack Frank’s mail account; send a message back _‘I’m not interested in my nephew’s conduct at school, please do not bother me again…’_

Then they would send another message, and another, and Frank would have to come in for a parent-teacher conference, and it would all come out. No, better just delete the thing without sending anything back.

“ _Ni sa’awaak’a olau’na ein’farr_.” 

The alien words reminded Jim of dry leaves whispering as he walked across them. He had never heard anything like it. He had, in fact, never heard anything but Earth Standard from Spock. But there he was, kneeling in the vegetable patch, a bucket half-filled with weeds next to him, his attention focused on the huge gray tom, who had turned onto his back and was allowing Spock to rub his belly. (This in itself was astonishing – The King usually allowed only brief touches on the head).

_“Vi’muyor k’du kup’ar sar-tohr istau’a. El-tor’ai.”_

There was something very different about Spock’s face. His features seemed softer, more open, and his eyes were filled with a sadness that made him look a lot older than fifteen years. He was touching the cat gently, drawing his fingers through the thick fur and scratching just the right places. Jim could hear The King purring blissfully.

“ _Fam kohminu su kal’tor’ai kum-tor.  Sahr-tor’ai el-tor, u’du dungau’a-tor_.“

“What language is that?”

Spock flinched. The King jumped back onto his feet, gave Jim an annoyed look and disappeared between the tomato plants and the cucumbers. Spock’s eyes followed him, and Jim felt awkward. He hadn’t meant to drive the cat away.

Spock met Jim’s eyes briefly, then lowered his head and picked up his hoe. “I apologize, sir. I shall continue with my work.”

Jim plopped down into the grass next to the patch Spock was working on. “That’s not what I meant. You were talking – was that Vulcan?”

“I do not know what you mean, sir.”

Jim looked at the bowed head, the thin hands that were diligently freeing the earth of weeds, and suddenly understood. “You’re not allowed to speak that language, are you.”

“I am not,” was the quiet reply.  “If you wish to punish me-”

“No!” Jim said quickly. “I – I don’t care if you speak Vulcan. I just thought it sounded cool.”

At that, Spock raised his head and lifted one eyebrow. “How does the sound of a language relate to temperature?”

Jim laughed. “No, I’m just saying I like how it sounds. Can you teach me a little?”

Spock’s eyes widened fractionally. “That would be most inappropriate, sir.”

“It’s Jim.” Acting on a sudden decision, Jim moved over so that he was kneeling next to Spock, and began pulling out the weeds in front of him. “Why don’t we make a deal – I’ll help you finish this, and you teach me some Vulcan.”

There was a moment’s silence, then, “Agreed.”

“Awesome.” Jim grinned at Spock. “How do you say ‘school sucks’ in Vulcan?”

“We do not,” Spock said sternly. “Education is a privilege. No Vulcan would think otherwise.”

“Okay, how do you say ‘Frank sucks’?”

Spock was quiet for a moment, and Jim wondered if he was going to get an answer at all. Then, an eyebrow twitched and Spock spoke softly. “ _Frank or’nai’ga_.”

“ _Frank or’nai’ga_ ,” Jim tried to imitate the lilting words.

“ _Nar-tor’iar_ ,” Spock said.

“Does that mean awesome?”

“Acceptable.”

Jim tugged at a reluctant dandelion. “How do I say ‘My name is Jim’?”

“ _Jim ahm t’nashveh_.”

“ _Jim ahm t’nashveh_.” Jim grinned. “ _Nar-tor’iar_ , right?”

“Indeed. You learn fast, sir.”

“How do I say ‘you don’t have to call me sir’?”

“ _Fam nashveh’r trensu ahmau’la_.” Spock paused for effect. “Sir.”

Jim tossed the dandelion at him. “ _Spock or’nai’ga!_ ”

Spock caught the plant deftly and transferred it into the bucket. “Your language skills are admirable, yet your weeding technique leaves much to be desired.”

Jim laughed. “That’s me. You really don’t have to call me sir, though. I’m fourteen.”

“I was trained to be respectful towards all humans, no matter their age.”

Jim wondered what that ‘training’ had been like… who had done it. And how. It didn’t seem like the kind of question he should ask, though. “Where were you when Frank, uhm, picked you up?”

“At the slave depot,” Spock replied evenly. “Where else would I have been?”

_Slave depot_. Jim knew, of course, that there were such places, although people euphemistically referred to them as ‘storage’. Which was, in a way, even worse. At least ‘slave depot’ acknowledged that there were living beings held inside.

“What was it like?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Spock gave a hard tug to one of the weeds. It came out dragging a chunk of earth behind. “I was held in a showing room with other boys. During opening hours potential customers came in and examined us. Sometimes there was an auction. Why do you want to know this?”

“I – I don’t know. I just want to know more about you, I guess. Where were you before the, uh, depot?”

Spock ripped out a clump of dandelions, spraying Jim with earth. He said nothing, and Jim decided, despite his niggling curiosity, not to press the matter.

“How do you say ‘how about I get us some iced tea’?” he asked instead.

Spock was silent for a long moment, and Jim was beginning to think that the Vulcan boy had decided to ignore him. Then, “There is no word for ‘iced tea’ in Vulcan. The closest equivalent would be _n’o’tu theris_. _Dungau’a na’etek zaprah n’o’tu theris_?”

“ _Dungau natek zapra note terries_?” Jim asked, deliberately botching the pronunciation.

Spock shot him an annoyed look, but Jim saw one telltale eyebrow twitch. “I would not be adverse to it. Your uncle, however-”

“Is probably at the maintenance station out back,” Jim said. “Don’t worry about him.”

Frank would survive drinking from a glass Spock had used, he thought as he climbed the porch steps. Besides, he was pretty sure by now that Vulcan germs were harmless to humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing, everyone!
> 
> For warnings on this chapter, please check the end notes.

Frank’s next drinking bout was a particularly bad one. It was a Saturday, and so Jim could watch it progress from the beginning: Three cans of lager with lunch, three more out on the porch, a bottle of red wine, then a short nap, and after that the hard stuff came out. Jim hated the smell more than anything.

Frank was sprawled in front of the holovision, watching some kind of stupid afternoon show, the brandy bottle and several cans of beer on the couch table in front of him. One of the cans had toppled over, foam slowly dripping from the table onto the carpet.

Frank belched. “Where’s Pointy?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Hanging out the laundry, like you told him. That nickname’s so lame, you know.”

“You shut your mouth and get him to fix me a cheese toast.”

_Fix your own toast_ , Jim wanted to say, but he didn’t quite dare. Frank was mean when he was drunk.

“I can do that,” he said, getting up from where he’d been playing with his padd.

“I said, get the Vulcan to do it. He makes better toast. And tell him to use ham this time. I’m not a damn vegetarian.”

Jim sighed. He didn’t like ordering Spock around for Frank. The Vulcan boy worked all day, doing chores round the house and the farm, cooking their meals, cleaning up after them. Frank could fix his own damn cheese toast.

He went out on the porch. Spock was nearly hidden behind a sheet he was clipping onto the laundry line, only his dark cap of hair and his hands visible behind the white rectangle.

“Spock!” Jim called out. “Frank wants a cheese toast.”

The deft fingers finished fastening the clip, then Spock appeared from the behind the sheet. “Yes, sir.”

Jim watched as the Vulcan boy came up the porch steps. He wanted to apologize, tell Spock that he’d offered to do it, but it would have sounded stupid. “He wants ham on it,” he said instead, rolling his eyes. “Too busy to fix it himself.”

Spock said nothing, but Jim noticed the flicker of apprehension on his face as he went inside. He knew Spock had watched Frank’s not-so-slow descent into shitfacedness just like he had.

He didn’t particularly feel like going back inside and sat on his mom’s old lawn chair, wondering if he should grab his bike and go to the quarry for a swim. If he came back late, Frank would be passed out cold in his armchair or on the couch. Hopefully.

Through the screen-door, he could see Spock in the kitchen busying himself with the sandwich toaster. The Vulcan boy worked as quickly and efficiently as always, setting the hot sandwich on a plate and cutting it into two neat triangles. Jim realized that he was pretty hungry, as well. He just hadn’t felt like eating anything with Frank’s brandy smelling up the place.

Spock’s cheese toast _was_ good, but Jim wasn’t going to order the other boy around like an asshole. He would fix his own food, even if his drunk-ass uncle wouldn’t.

He got up and went inside, just as Spock left to take the plate to the living room. Jim got out the bread, and was about to open the fridge when he heard Frank’s voice.

“That’s a good boy.”

Something about his tone sounded off, not at all like his usual drunk sneer. And Frank never told Spock he was a good boy… or a good anything. This didn’t feel right.

Jim stepped through to the living room. Frank was still in his armchair, the toast sitting forgotten on the couch table. One of his uncle’s hands was wrapped around Spock’s wrist, holding him still, while the other one…

Jim felt instantly sick. Frank was groping Spock’s ass like a fucking perv.

“Uncle Frank, what are you doing?”

Frank let go as if he’d been burned, pushing Spock away so that the Vulcan boy stumbled and fell. Taking no notice, Frank got up from the chair. Jim saw that he was livid - his face was a dark red, his hands clenching as he advanced on Jim.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? You little shit! Living in my house, eating my food, good-for-nothing little fuck!”

Jim ducked, but not fast enough; Frank’s fist caught him hard on the side of the face. For a second, his vision blurred.

“Shoulda kicked you out with your goddamn brother, goddamn fucking…” Running out of things to call Jim, he turned to Spock, who was in the process of getting up. “And you clean up that mess, you hear me? Fuckin’ beer stinking up the place! Get to it!”

He kicked him in ribs, pushing him down again. “Goddamn green-blooded little fuck! Move your ass!”

Spock scrambled to his feet and almost ran to the kitchen. Jim was leaning against the wall, holding his head. It _hurt_.

Through a blur of tears (he _hated_ that he was crying), he saw Frank grab the sandwich halves and a pack of lager.

“I’m out of here, and when I get back, I want this mess cleaned up! Or I’m gonna whip both your asses!”

He stomped out of the living room to the front door, which opened and shut with a bang. A few moments later, Jim heard the AirVan’s engine start.

_I hope you crash it this time_ , he thought. _I hope you die_.

Something warm trickled down his upper lip. Jim wiped it off and stared blearily when his hand came away red. His head was pounding as if he’d been the one getting shitfaced all afternoon.

“Here.”

Spock had appeared next to him, holding a wet dish towel. Jim took it numbly and pressed it against his cheek.

“Thanks.”

Spock just nodded. He looked paler than usually, his eyes a little brighter. There were no tears on his face, though, and Jim quickly drew a sleeve across his own eyes.

“It’s just… he’s such a fucking asshole when he’s drunk. He’s not always like this.” He didn’t even know why he was _protecting_ Frank, or why he felt so ashamed. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

Jim shrugged. “Dunno. This is all so messed up.”

Spock said nothing, and began to gather up the empty beer cans Frank had left behind. Jim made to help him, but Spock held up a hand.

“I will take care of it.”

He didn’t tag on his usual ‘sir’, and Jim was grateful that he didn’t. He should be helping – after all, Spock had been the one who’d been molested and then kicked halfway across the room. But he found that he could just sit there, waiting for the throb in his face to abate. Frank’s hand had been _all over_ Spock. He felt sick just thinking about it, thinking about the fact that he was related to that man.

Spock removed Frank’s mess as efficiently as usual, then went to the kitchen and returned with a cleaning rag to rub the beer stains out of the carpet.

“It’s no use,” Jim said, trying for a normal tone of voice. “That carpet’s had more beer than half the population of Riverside.”

“Statistically unlikely, “ Spock said, “as the carpet is incapable of digesting fermented malt.”

Jim managed a weak grin. “Logical.”

“Indeed.”

Jim got up. “Leave the carpet. He won’t notice any difference. C’mon, I’ll help you hang up the laundry, and then we’ll make some cheese toast, okay?”

_“Nar-tor’iar.”_

Jim smiled, and it didn’t even hurt that much. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that.”

###

Jim didn’t see Frank until the next morning, when he got downstairs and found his uncle prone on the couch, snoring. He looked out the window and saw that the AirVan had been parked on the lawn, dangerously close to the fence that guarded the vegetable patch. There were new dents on the side, Jim noticed, not without a certain satisfaction.

Spock was up and about, mopping the kitchen floor.

“Morning,” Jim said, leaning in the doorway. “When did he get home?” He jerked his head at the sleeping form on the couch.

“At thirty-four point six minutes past five,” Spock said. Jim was used by now to the Vulcan’s strange habit of counting time down to the second, and didn’t comment on it.

“He wake you?”

“I was awake,” Spock said.

“That early?”

“Vulcans require less sleep,” was Spock’s only comment, and Jim didn’t say anything. He hadn’t slept that well, either.

There was a groan from the couch, then a quiet cough.

Jim sighed. “Looks like he’s awake.”

Spock’s face showed a trace of apprehension. “Will - will he still be drunk?”

“Naw,” Jim shook his head. “He’ll just have a killer of a hang-over. Serves him right.”

There was another groan from the living room, then, “Jimmy…”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Coming!”

Frank wasn’t exactly up, but he had managed to push himself up on his elbows. His face was pale and puffed up, with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. The couch pillows had left a red pattern on his cheek.

“Jimmy… dammit, your face… ’m sorry…”

He always was. Jim shrugged. “Yeah, guess it looks worse than it is.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Frank’s eyes widened, and Jim grabbed the waste basket just in time. His uncle heaved twice, then vomited over the side of the couch. Luckily, most of it went into the basket.

When he was done, Frank wiped his mouth on his sleeve and fell back onto the couch. “Oh God, my _head_ … where’s Spock? I need coffee…”

“You need a shower.”

“Coffee first,” Frank said, reaching for the cup Spock had brought him from the kitchen. “Thanks,” he said to the Vulcan boy. “Thanks, kid.”

Jim could tell that Frank was feeling desperately guilty; he’d never thanked Spock for anything before.

Frank began to take little sips from the cup, watching blearily as Spock took the dirty wastebasket out of the room. “Did you lock his door tonight?”

Jim shook his head. “Nope. Didn’t murder me in my bed, as you can see.”

Frank seemed too tired to argue. He merely closed his eyes, holding the coffee cup as if it contained the elixir of life. Like this, he looked harmless; a middle-aged guy with a graying beard and a beginning paunch. Like this, Jim could believe that this was the man who had once held his five-year-old self on his lap and rocked him to soothe away an ear ache.

Spock came back, and Frank ordered him to get some twenty-seconds aspirin, which he did. It mercifully stayed down, and Frank began to look a little less zombie-like as the medication took effect.

He even managed to get himself into a standing position, taking slow, unsteady steps as he began to make his way to the stairs.

“I’ll be in my room,” he said unnecessarily. “Don’t make too much noise. Oh and Jim…” He turned, a look on his face that Jim knew very well. Guilt was only part of it; there was also embarrassment at his current state, and annoyance at them for being witness to it. Jim had seen it dozens of times. “There’s fifty credits in my wallet. Why don’t you order yourself a pizza and some ice-cream… get some for Spock, too.”

“Will do,” Jim said. This was part of the routine, too; it all was.

“Okay then.”

And he was gone, along with the smell of stale beer that had lingered in the room.

Jim looked at Spock. “You like pizza?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Please note that this chapter deals with alcohol abuse, some violence as well as an incident of sexual harassment between an adult and a minor.


	5. Chapter 5

From: **The Washington County News/ Classified Ads**

September 04, 2245

[Click link for a message from our sponsors]

** Runaways **

**1\. Vulcan male, 34, missing since August 18**

Name: Sorvek

Description: 181 cm/ 76 kg/ black, straight hair/ slim built/ dark brown eyes

Distinguishing marks: scars on both hands and back/ fresh burn on right arm

Comments: Went missing from Giles & Sons Food Crafting Company. Reward 500 CR if turned over to police/ 100 CR for information about his whereabouts that leads to recapture.

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**2\. Vulcan female, 45, missing since August 27**

Name: T’Pyr

Description: 168 cm/ 66 kg/ dark brown hair, usually braided/ stout built, wide hips/ light brown eyes

Distinguishing marks: tattoo on left shoulder blade with the letters AT

Comments: Went missing from private household. T. has a daughter and a son in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and will likely attempt to contact them. T. is an accomplished accountant/secretary and expected to disguise herself as a human. Speaks fluent Standard, Spanish and Mandarin. Reward 2000 CR if turned over to police/ 500 CR for information about her whereabouts that leads to recapture **.**

****

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**3\. Vulcan female, 21, missing since August 15**

Name: T’Sen

Description: 170 cm/ 51 kg/ black, straight hair, pageboy cut/ slender built, long legs/ dark grey eyes

Distinguishing marks: scar on left thigh

Comments: Went missing from private household. T. has taken an aircar (dark blue Ford Streamline) and will likely attempt to go south. Was announced pregnant before she escaped and is 9-10 weeks along.  Reward 1500 CR if turned over to police (+500 CR for the undamaged car)/ 500 CR for information about her whereabouts that leads to recapture.

  **[Click to contact owner and/or police]**

 

**4\. Vulcan male, 9, missing since September 02**

Name: Sylon

Description: 140 cm/ 31 kg/ brown, straight hair/ slender built, long legs/ dark grey eyes

Distinguishing marks: green birth mark on his left forearm/ wears children’s collar (disabled, likely through crude means)/ fresh welts on buttocks and legs

Comments: Went missing from private household. If anyone knows where he is, please contact us!!! Tell him he’s not in trouble anymore, all is forgiven! Reward 1800 CR if turned over to police **unharmed** / 500 CR for information about his whereabouts that leads to recapture. Please call us!

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###

 

Jim knew that his teacher’s message was going to pop up on Frank’s padd sometime, he just didn’t know when. It was his luck that it happened during one of the rare occasions when his uncle was in a fairly good mood.

They were having dinner at the kitchen table – that was, he and Frank were having dinner while Spock was serving the food. Frank had a padd next to his plate and was perusing the local news page’s classified ads section, wondering aloud if he should get some of the second-hand harvesting automatons on offer.

“75o credits a piece… that’s quite a sum. What do you think, Jim?”

Jim tried not to look too surprised. Frank was hardly ever interested in his opinion. “I guess it’s a good offer… they cost 4000 credits new, don’t they?”

“Yeah… but I don’t want them breaking down a few months after I get them. No warranty on used ones, of course.”

Jim glanced at the ad. “They’re three years old, they should still have warranty. Why don’t you ask the guy to transfer the document to you when you buy them?”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Clever kid.”

Jim ate a forkful of his Mexican rice and went back to scrolling through his own padd. “Glad you noticed.”

“Four automatons, minus 15 percent discount if I take the whole lot… that’s…

“2550,” Jim and Spock said simultaneously.

Surprised, both humans turned to the Vulcan boy. Spock hardly ever said anything without being spoken to.

Frank frowned. “Didn’t know you could do maths.”

Spock lowered his eyes. “I am not very proficient, sir.”

Jim knew that this was a straightforward lie; Spock had found a padd with his maths homework once, and had solved one of the problems within a few seconds’ time.

Frank seemed satisfied with his answer, however. “Didn’t think so. There’s only so much you pointies can learn through imitation.”

Spock kept his eyes demurely down, giving none of his thoughts away. Jim wondered if Vulcans secretly called humans ‘round-ears’. No, they were probably too logical to do so.

Frank held out his empty beer can without looking at Spock (only his third, Jim registered with some relief). “Get me another one.”

“Yes, sir.” Spock took the can, heading to the stasis unit to retrieve a new one.

It was then that Frank’s padd gave the distinct ‘ping’ that announced incoming mail.

Jim saw the school’s logo the moment Frank opened the message. He watched his uncle scroll through the contents, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Frank’s face became stonier the more he read. When he finally looked up, there were the telltale red patches beginning to spread on his neck.

He threw the padd on the table in front of Jim. “You better have a good explanation for this, buddy. A really good explanation.”

Jim looked down at the message. _Dear Mr Henke… continued absences without a notification… unwilling to cooperate with the teachers… suspension of no less than ten days…_

And then, the thing that was likely to make Frank’s blood boil: _Please contact me as soon as possible to set an appointment for a parent-teacher conference to discuss James’ situation._

Jim glanced up. “Uh… sorry?”

“You little _shit_!” Frank drew back, and Jim instinctively threw up his hands to glance off the blow. It still stung like hell when Frank’s palm landed on his upper arm. “I told you a thousand times, get your ass to school! But it’s like talking to a goddamn wall! What do I have to do to make you _listen_?”

Frank grabbed Jim’s plate and threw it across the table. Jim dodged it just in time. Rice flew onto the table top and the floor, where the plate shattered with a loud crash.

“Out!” Frank yelled. “Get out of my sight, you little fuck!”

Not waiting for more dishes to come flying his way, Jim jumped up and ran out, the screen door closing behind him with a bang. Inside, he could hear Frank’s voice.

“What are _you_ looking at? Clean this up!”

Jim clattered down the porch steps, almost stumbling over Frank’s work boots. He ran past the vegetable patch, past the shed, past the apple trees. Only when he’d arrived at the barn, about fifty meters from the farmhouse, he came to a halt, leaning against the wooden boards and waiting for the rush of adrenaline to subside. He had known this would be coming. He had known there would be big trouble.

He still couldn’t get used to this kind of thing.

When his shaking had lessened, Jim sat down heavily on a piece of ancient farm machinery. He felt in his pocket, relieved when his fingers encountered a small rectangular box. He needed a smoke, badly. So what if Frank saw him. He was in a world of trouble as it was.

Inhaling the smoke, Jim looked back at the house. Inside, Spock was no doubt sweeping up the broken plate, and Frank was pacing up and down the kitchen, swearing at everything and everyone and his damn nephew in particular.

Oh well. At least he got out of school for ten days.

###

“Why do you not wish to go to school?”

Jim and Spock were sitting next to each other on top of the highest haystack in the barn. Jim remembered playing in here with Sam, daring each other to jump down into a pool of hay. He could still recall the exhilarating rush of falling, followed by a not-quite-painful landing, sending clouds of dust and hay into the air. He’d always jumped first.

He shrugged. “Dunno. It’s boring.”

“If you do not find the subject matter challenging, why don’t your teachers assign you more advanced tasks?”

“Dunno. I guess they can’t spend that much time on one kid.”

“That is illogical.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I just did.”

Jim laughed. “Vulcans don’t have to go to school, do they?”

“We are not allowed,” Spock said softly, and Jim instantly felt like an asshole. “Our elders pass on as much knowledge as they dare.”

Jim was silent for a moment. “You think I’m a spoiled brat, don’t you? Skipping school when you’re not even allowed to go.”

“That would be illogical,” Spock said. “You did not facilitate my circumstances. Your decisions are your own.”

“That doesn’t mean you agree with them.”

“No,” Spock said, direct as usual. At least he no longer felt the need to call Jim ‘sir’.

Jim began to tug pieces of hay out of the bale. “It’s just… I hate it there. The stuff we learn… it’s got nothing to do with real life.”

“Mathematics is an integral part of reality,” Spock said. “Some even say it is a universal language understood by all sentient beings.”

Jim had never heard Spock speak so passionately about anything. “You’d love to go to school, wouldn’t you?”

“I would greatly appreciate the chance to further my education.”

“Did your parents teach you?” The question wasn’t quite out yet when Jim saw that it had been the wrong thing to say. Spock’s face lost all expression, becoming the rigid mask it had been when Jim had first met him.

“Sorry,” Jim said. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

Spock stared into the empty space in front of them, at the pale rays the evening sun was casting through the slated roof. When he spoke, his voice was very even. “I was separated from my mother at a very young age. Before that, she did teach me, yes.”

“Separated? You mean…” Coward that he was, he couldn’t say it.

Spock did it for him. “My father’s owners sold me when I was four years old.”

“What about your mom?”

Spock closed his eyes. “There… there was nothing she could do. She was very young, only eighteen when I was born, and she did not… own me, or my father. Her parents did.”

Jim understood immediately, half wishing that he didn’t. “Your mother… she was human, wasn’t she.”

“Yes,” Spock whispered. “She was.”

Jim pulled more hay out of the bale, trying to process the information he had been given. He had heard of such unions before; most people spoke of them in disgusted tones, and there were preachers on the holovision calling hellfire on every human who would ‘demean themselves’ in such a way. The children were called ‘half-breed freaks’, if not worse, and were despised and hushed up by their human families.

“What happened to your dad?”

“He was sold before I was born,” Spock said. “I do not know whether he is still alive. I have never met him.”

“Shit.” Jim tossed a handful of hay into the air. He had never met his father either, but he couldn’t imagine what it was like, being four years old and _sold_ like a commodity by his own family. “ _Shit_.”

“It is a fate that befalls many Vulcan children. I am no exception.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Jim said. He remembered his history teacher, Mr. Boyle, going on about how Vulcans shouldn’t be judged by human standards, how they didn’t feel the same emotions as ‘real people’. Jim had never liked Boyle, and now that he knew Spock, he called bullshit on that. If anything, Spock’s pain was deeper, rawer than a human’s, undiminished by the years that had passed. Maybe he didn’t cry. That didn’t mean he wasn’t hurting like hell on the inside.

Without thinking, he put an arm around the other boy’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Spock stiffened a little, but didn’t push him away. They sat like this for a while, Jim holding onto Spock, feeling the Vulcan boy’s inhuman warmth and thinking that this was nice. He could get used to touching Spock like this.

Suddenly, the Vulcan boy’s back went as straight as a rod, making Jim flinch. His arm slipped from Spock’s shoulders.

“Spock, what-”

“Shh.” Spock glanced at something behind them. “There is someone in here.”

“Come on, who would-”

“I can hear them breathing.”

Jim was beginning to feel nervous, even more so since he hadn’t heard anything at all. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.” Spock got up as quietly as a cat, moving towards a bale of hay at the back of barn. Jim climbed after him. Against his better judgment, he was curious.

They’d almost reached the bale Spock was heading towards when suddenly a loose pile of hay in front of them began to move. Jim stumbled back and almost lost his balance. From inside the pile, frantic hands began to shove the hay aside, an arm emerged, and finally a head. A rather small head.

“What the…” Jim stared. In front of them, covered in hay, his dark hair tousled, stood a little Vulcan boy.

A little Vulcan boy who was obviously terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

“Please d-do not hurt me.” The boy’s voice shook.

Jim stared at him. The kid couldn’t be older than ten. He was dressed in worn but neat clothes, and had the same haircut as Spock, only that his hair seemed to have been cut more recently. His gray eyes looked huge in the twilight of the barn.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Jim said. “How did you get in here?”

“I walked,” the boy whispered. “Through the door.”

From a human kid, this answer would have been sarcastic, but Jim could see that the boy was being entirely serious.

“Yeah, I mean, why are you here? Shouldn’t – shouldn’t you be home?”

The kid seemed to shrink in on himself. “Yes, sir.”

So he was sir again. Jim sat down in the hay, hoping to appear less threatening to the boy. Next to him, Spock did the same, speaking for the first time since they had found the child.

“Did you run away?”

This hadn’t even occurred to Jim – the trembling little bundle in front of them didn’t exactly look like a rebellious runaway. One look at the boy’s face, however, told him that Spock had hit the nail on the head.

“Yes,” the boy said shakily. “Will you turn me in?”

“No,” Jim said quickly, before he even had time to think. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with us.”

Spock gave him a sideways look, but didn’t comment. “What is your name?” he asked the boy.

“Sylon.”

“I’m Jim, and this is Spock,” Jim said. “You wanna sit, Sylon?”

The boy looked suspicious, but didn’t dare refuse the human’s request, and hunkered down in the hay. For some reason, he reminded Jim of a lost kitten, crouched in its hiding place and hissing at the world outside.

“Why did you run away?”

Sylon didn’t exactly start crying, but his eyes became brighter than before, and his lower lip began to tremble. “I…” He seemed unable to go on.

“Did someone hurt you?” Spock’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

Jim could see that Sylon was struggling hard to maintain his control. “I – I wanted to find my sister,” the boy burst out eventually. “T’Sen, my older sister. She was sold six weeks ago, and I wanted to find out where they took her. So I stole a padd and went online.”

Jim knew this couldn’t have gone over well with the boy’s owners. Vulcans weren’t allowed access to any kind of network, unless strictly supervised by a human. Jim was aware of this fact because Frank had told Spock about a million times, warning him what would happen if he broke that rule. _I’ll cane your hands so bad you won’t even be thinking about touching another padd._

“You got caught.”

Sylon lowered his head. “Yes. Master Lucas found the padd under my bed. He told me to get the belt and punished me in front of everyone else. I – I cried, and everyone saw it.”

Jim thought it was perfectly legitimate to cry when someone whipped you with a belt, especially if you were only a little kid, but Sylon seemed to consider it the height of disgrace.

“The _tela’ko’mekh_ saw it,” the boy whispered. “I could not stay after that.”

Jim tried to remember if Spock had ever used that word. “Your mother?” he guessed.

“The Eldest Mother,” Spock corrected. “The oldest female in the household. She-who-is-to-be-honored.”

This was an alien world, Jim realized, one that existed in the humans’ shadow and escaped their attention most of the time – a world with its own rules and laws, understood only by its quiet, reticent inhabitants.

“I’m sure she knows that you couldn’t help it. Belt whipping hurts like hell.”

That, at least, he knew from personal experience.

“Pain is what it is,” Sylon said, obviously quoting something. “I shamed myself and my clan. I could not stay.”

“Your logic is flawed,” Spock said – which was kind of harsh, Jim thought. “Your chances of escaping capture indefinitely are 0.7 percent at this time. Where were you planning to go?”

Sylon bit his lip, glancing at Jim. “ _Fam na’komihnu’lar kaluku_.” [It is not for human ears]

“ _Kup-tu nashveh’r sahrafel-tor_ ,” [You can trust me] Jim said haltingly.

Spock looked at him with something akin to pride, while Sylon seemed taken aback. “You speak the _tsatik lakh_ [secret language]? Did you teach him, _sa-kai_? It is not allowed.”

“Yeah, I don’t much care about that kind of thing,” Jim said. “And I’m not turning you in to the assholes who did this to you. You have my word.”

The last bit sounded strangely solemn, like something a movie character would say, but it seemed to convince Sylon.

“I destroyed the chip in my collar so I could leave the premises. Their scanners cannot tell where I am.”

It was only then that Jim noticed the collar. He’d seen this kind of thing in shops, but he hadn’t appreciated before how sick it actually was – a collar for a slave child, playfully patterned like a toy. Sylon’s was red with yellow stars.

The boy must have melted the chip inside using some kind of open flame. It had left behind a big scorch mark and angry-looking green blisters on his neck.

“My sister told me there is a hiding place, far in the south of this continent. There are Vulcans and _kohminu_ who help them. They… they have ships that take you to the stars.”

Jim had never heard of such a thing. Spock, however, didn’t look surprised. “A legend.”

“My sister would not lie,” Sylon said, looking offended. “It is the truth. The _tela’ko’mekh_ told her about it.”

This seemed to close the matter for both Vulcans, for Spock didn’t object any further.

“Even so, it is illogical to assume that you could reach this place on your own.”

Sylon stared at his hands. “T’Sen - my sister might be there. I saw it on the news pages. She escaped from her new owners three weeks ago.”

Jim looked at the sorry little figure in front of him; the smudged collar, the blisters, the shadows under the boy’s eyes. “How long have you been on the run, Sylon?”

“Three – three days, sir.”

“It’s Jim. Have you had anything to eat since you left?”

“I… I took an apple from one of the trees outside,” Sylon whispered shamefacedly. “It was a little brown on one side. I thought it would not be missed.”

“Definitely not,” Jim said, thinking of the hundreds of apples that were left to fall off the trees and rot, ever since his mom no longer made jelly and apple sauce. “You’ve got to be hungry.”

“I am, a little.”

“Why don’t you and Spock wait here, and I’ll go get some food from the house. What do you like?”

Sylon’s eyes had grown huge. “Sir… please do not call the police. Please.”

“I won’t,” Jim said, putting as much strength into his words as he could. “I promise, kid.”

“ _Fam ptha’la_ ,” Spock said. “ _Fam paluntunau’u vutau’mik_.” [Have no fear. He will not alert the authorities.]

“ _Ugau’a_ ,” [I promise] Jim added.

Sylon wrapped his arms around his knees. That way, he looked even smaller, his gray eyes even larger. Jim didn’t understand how anyone could be cold-hearted enough to hurt this little guy.  “I… would appreciate something to eat.”

“Sure, kid.” Jim began to get to his feet. “Be right back.”

As he climbed down from the bales of hay, he saw Spock holding out two fingers and touching the boy’s forehead gently. The significance of the gesture was lost on him, but he could see that it was meant to calm the boy.

Cornbread and bananas, he thought. And maybe some ice cream. No matter if you were human or Vulcan, a tub of Cookie Dough ice cream could only help to make things better.

###

Frank was in his room, thankfully, so Jim didn’t have to deal with any awkward questions (or flying plates).

Ten minutes later, he was climbing back into the hayloft, where he was met by two pairs of raised eyebrows.

“Will none of this be missed?” Sylon asked tentatively.

“Naw. I don’t think my uncle would notice if I painted his AirVan red. He’s not very observant,” Jim added, seeing that the quip about the AirVan had only confused Sylon. “Besides, I do most of the shopping. I’ll just buy a little more next time.”

He began to spread out his loot – cornbread, bananas, ice-cream, a bag of potato chips, apples, grapes and four bottles of the lemon iced tea that Spock liked.

“Go ahead,” he said at Sylon’s longing look. “It’s all for you.”

Sylon reached for the cornbread, stuffing his mouth so full that he could barely chew. Spock always avoided touching his food with his hands, but the little boy seemed beyond caring about Vulcan manners. Sylon ate and ate, and Jim was amazed at the amount of food such a tiny kid could put away. The boy must have been starving.

When he was done, Sylon touched his forehead and held his hand out to Jim, palm up. “Thank you, sir.”

“It’s Jim.”

“Jim,” Sylon pronounced carefully, glancing at Spock as if to make sure it was okay.

“That’s right. Now, I got you a few blankets and a jacket, and a padd with some books. Uh, you can read, right?”

Sylon looked the tiniest bit offended. “My sister taught me to read and write when I was four years old.”

The boy’s tone betrayed a lot more that what was said, and it made Jim’s chest feel tight.

“ _Vulcans do not suffer like a human would when they are separated from their family_ ,” Boyle had told the class. “ _They might be a little disconcerted, but it passes after a few days. It’s just sentimental to think that they feel the same pain we would_.”

Fuck him.

Jim picked up a little tube he’d taken from the bathroom cabinet. “This is for your neck. For the burns. There’s no way of getting rid of that thing, I guess?”

He pointed at Sylon’s collar.

“They are made of flexible duranium,” Spock said. “While not heat-resistant, it can only be cut using a highly concentrated phaser beam.”

Jim gave him a sideways look. Spock had obviously given this some thought.

“You’ll just have work around it, then.”

Sylon unscrewed the tube and began to apply the burn cream to his injuries, slipping one small finger under the collar to reach the blisters beneath. It must have hurt like hell, burning up that thing, Jim thought.

He reached for the other tube he had brought. “Is there… uh, are you hurt anywhere else?”

Sylon looked embarrassed. “It is of no consequence.”

“It’ll feel better if you put this on,” Jim said. “Spock can help you.”

Remembering Frank feeling Spock up from behind, Jim still felt like puking his guts out. He’d rather cut his arm off than make Sylon think he was doing the same thing.

“ _Olozhikaik’an_ ,” Spock said quietly to the boy. [It is the logical thing to do].

Sylon swallowed, then got up. Without further ado, he unzipped the baggy old jeans he was wearing and let them fall around his ankles. The patched-up underwear followed shortly after.

“Goddammit,” Jim said softly, unconsciously using one of Frank’s favorite swears.

The boy’s thin behind and skinny legs were covered with dark, yellow-green bruises. Jim could see the print of a belt buckle in more than one place. Frank had hit him pretty bad, back in the day, but this… this was brutal.

“What kind of fucked-up _asshole_ would do that?”

“The common punishment for using communicative devices without permission is thirty whip lashes,” Spock said, as if it was perfectly normal that there were _rules_ for this kind of thing. “I assume they used the belt because he is still a child. It is considered lenient.”

“I got twenty-five. Master Lucas said it would be the whip if it happened again,” Sylon said quietly. “He was very angry.”

“ _La’ti’la fi’skaun’sa-haf_.” [Lie down on your stomach] Spock indicated the blanket Jim had spread on the hay. “I will assist you.”

Sylon silently obeyed. Jim watched as Spock began to apply the antiseptic painkiller to boy’s welts, his touches gentle but thorough.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Spock didn’t volunteer any more information, and Jim didn’t ask. Sylon made no sound, although it had to hurt. When Spock was done, he indicated for the boy to stay put.

“Remain as you are. The salve needs to be left on until the skin has absorbed it.”

“Thank you, _sa-kai_.”

“Thanks are unnecessary,” Spock said. It didn’t sound like a rebuke, more like a ritual phrase. “Rest now, _pi’sa’kai_.”

They sat next to the boy, watching silently as his breathing slowly evened out. When Jim was sure that Sylon was asleep, he carefully spread a blanket over the boy, tucking him in.

“Help me,” he said to Spock, and together they built a wall of hay around the sleeping child, so that he would not be visible even from a few feet away. Jim put the padds down next to him.

“D’you think he will be scared when he wakes up?”

“He is very scared,” Spock said. “His control is admirable for one so young.”

Jim looked down at the little sleeping form in its nest of hay. “How can anyone beat a kid like this?”

“He did not receive a very harsh beating,” Spock said – almost gently, it seemed. “And he seems to be in an overall healthy condition. It is likely that his owners generally treated him well.”

Jim stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“This is fucked up.”

“To what are you referring?”

Jim shrugged. “This. Everything. I – I never knew about this kind of stuff. I mean, yeah, I knew people punished slaves, but…”

He trailed off, feeling immensely stupid. The truth was that he had never really thought about it. Vulcans were… just there, they worked, people called them ‘pointies’ or ‘greenies’ and Mr. Boyle had the class write stupid-ass assignments about them. They had nothing to do with Jim’s life.

He felt like a huge douchebag, thinking about it. Spock had a tendency to do that to him.

“We’ve got to help that kid,” he said. “He’ll never make it on his own.”

“It is very likely that he will be recaptured.”

“Maybe we can help him.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

Jim shrugged. Truth was, he had no idea. “We’ll think of something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**From: United Earth Larceny Laws, Section 17, Subsection 12**

**_§A_ ** _The theft of property defined as ‘non-human sentients’ (Section 2, Subsection 23) is a theft in the first degree. Theft in the first degree is a Level A felony, and may result in a fine of up to 1 000 000 CR and/or prison time._

**_§B_ ** _The aiding and abetting of a non-human sentient’s unauthorized abscondence is a theft in the second degree. Theft in the second degree is a Level B felony, and may result in a fine of up to 750 000 CR and/or prison time._

###

Two days passed more or less uneventfully – if hiding a nine-year-old Vulcan runaway in your barn and providing him with food could be considered uneventful. Jim sneaked out in the morning when Frank was still sleeping, and again in the evening when his uncle had disappeared into his room and was playing on his games console. Spock usually went with him to the barn, unless Frank had already locked him up for the night. Jim would have let him out, but the lock (like Spock’s collar) was programmed to Frank’s fingerprint.

Sylon slept a lot, ate whatever food he was given and began to look much better, all in all. His blisters were healing, and his bruises had faded a pale yellow (Spock still applied the analgesic cream once a day). Once, Jim climbed the ladder to the hayloft to find the little boy cuddled up to The King, who was purring loudly. The giant tom had apparently taken a liking to Vulcans.

Early on the third morning, Jim was in the kitchen, deliberating whether Sylon would like pop tarts or pancakes better, when the doorbell sounded.

This happened rarely enough, and was almost never good news (once it had been a social worker asking sanctimoniously if Jim was having ‘a fun summer’). Jim wondered if he should pretend that no one was home, but decided against it. They might come back later, when Frank was awake. Better to get rid of whoever it was himself.

Walking past Spock’s locked door (they’d talked briefly, but of course Jim could do nothing to let the other boy out of his nightly prison), Jim went to the front door and began to open the many locks Frank had put there in one of his more paranoid phases.

The bell was rung again.

“Just a moment,” Jim called. “No need to-”

Opening the door, he broke off abruptly. Standing in front of him were two police officers in full uniform, phasers and all. Behind them, Jim could see their aircar parked behind Frank’s van.

“Morning, son,” said the taller of the two, a guy with a stupid blond moustache and sideburns. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Stomach flu,” Jim said.

“Hence the pop tarts,” the other one said, grinning a little. He had friendly brown eyes and didn’t look as stuffy as Moustache Guy.

Jim noticed that he was still holding the carton. “Yeah, they’re for Spock. Our Vulcan houseboy,” he added. He’d heard Frank refer to Spock that way.

“Ah,” Moustache Guy said. “So is it just you and the Vulcan, or is there an adult we can talk to?”

“My uncle’s at the maintenance station in the fields,” Jim said. “I’m not supposed to disturb him when he’s working.”

“Can’t you call him on his padd?”

“Uh, he switches it off when he’s at work. He really doesn’t like-”

“Who is it, Jim?”

Jim bit his lip. _Of course_ Frank would have to be coming down the stairs in this very moment.

“Maintenance station, huh?” Moustache Guy gave him a pissed look, but the brown-eyed cop just turned to Frank, who was wearing his bathrobe and looked generally disheveled.

“Are you Mr. Frank Henke?”

Frank blinked in the bright sunlight. “Yeah? If you’re here about my nephew, whatever he’s done now, I-”

“We’re not here about your nephew, sir,” the cop interrupted him. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, and Jim too, if that’s alright. Can we come in?”

Still looking confused, Frank stepped aside and let them walk past him into the kitchen.

“Your nephew said you have a Vulcan houseboy,” Moustache Guy said to Frank. “Can you get him?”

Frank frowned. “What do you want with him? He can’t even leave the farm.”

“He might have seen something,” the brown-eyed cop said. “Could you…”

Sighing, Frank went to Spock’s door and pressed the lock once to open it. “Spock, get out here.”

Spock’s face was blank as usual, but Jim had learned to recognize the little giveaways, like a twitch in his cheek or a tightened jaw. He saw that Spock had become instantly nervous at the sight of the cops.

“I’m Officer Meyer, and this is Officer Rogers,” the brown-eyed cop said. “We’re here about a runaway Vulcan boy. Some Riverside residents said that they saw him in the neighborhood. Have you seen anything that could help us?”

“Here,” Rogers said, holding out a padd. “Take a look.”

It was Sylon, of course, his distinctive gray eyes large as he stared at whoever was holding the camera.

Jim’s stomach had tightened into a hard little ball. He thought fast.

“Haven’t seen him,” Frank said. “When did he run away?”

“Six days ago,” Meyer said. “His owners are really worried. He’s only nine years old.”

“Have you seen anything?” Rogers asked, looking at Jim.

“Uh…” Jim pretended to think. “I’m not sure. I might have.”

“Where?”

“At the Medina.” A grocery store at the other end of town, set at the edge of a vast stretch of land. “I’m not sure. It could’ve been another Vulcan kid. He did have ears like this one though.”

Rogers rolled his eyes and snatched the padd back. “Very funny.”

“Seriously though, I saw a kid lurking round the back of the store. Might have been him.”

“What about you, boy?” Rogers asked Spock. “Have you seen anything, or has another Vulcan said anything to you about the kid?”

“No, sir.” Spock didn’t point out that there were no other Vulcans on the farm… officially.

Meyer sighed. “Well then. If you do see anything, be sure to give us a call. There’s a 500 credits reward for any information that helps us find him.”

Frank frowned. “Wait, wasn’t there an add on the news pages?”

Meyer nodded. “Yes, his owners posted it a few days ago. They’re nice people, really. Just want the boy back safe.”

The cops left after that. When they were gone, Jim sat down on a kitchen chair, feeling heady from the adrenaline rush. The police had never scared him before, but this wasn’t just about him. If they’d decided to search the premises, they’d have found Sylon for sure. There was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

“One day your big fat mouth is gonna get you in so much trouble,” Frank said. “No way you saw that kid at the store. You were just making shit up.”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe I saw him. How do you know?”

Frank just waved a dismissive hand. “Downstairs bathroom needs to be cleaned,” he said to Spock, heading for the stairs. “Wake me at ten.”

“Yes sir.”

They both waited, listening to Frank’s door open and shut, the tell-tale creak of his steps across the old wooden floor, and finally the thump as he plopped down on his bed.

“We’ve got to get the kid out of here,” Jim said. “Next time they might search the place.”

“Possibly,” Spock said.

Jim bit his thumbnail, a habit he’d never quite gotten rid of. “There might be a way…”

###

“The train station’s here.” Jim pointed at the map he’d printed off the web. “If you hide behind the old station house on the other side, you’ve got about four minutes.”

Sylon looked nervous. “Someone might see me.”

“It’ll be dark, and the freight trains only stop there for a few minutes, usually because there’s some hold-up. You’ve got to look for an open container door and slip inside real quick.”

“What if none of the doors are open?”

“They usually are,” Jim said. “My brother and me used to do this on a dare when we were younger; jump into one of the containers and back out before the train starts moving again.”

“That sounds like a rather dangerous activity,” Spock said mildly.

Jim grinned. “I had to jump out of a moving train once. Still got the scar.”

Sylon looked at the printed map, and the backpack Jim had packed for him. “And all the trains go south.”

Jim nodded. “I looked it up. The one scheduled tonight stops in San Antonio first, and then goes on to Mexico City. That’s where you want to get off.”

The Vulcan boy looked very young, sitting there in the hay with Jim’s borrowed jacket crumpled in his lap. Too young to go to a foreign country on his own, and definitely too young to go there without a place to stay, without people waiting for him.

“I found something,” Jim said. “An address.”

The site had been hard to find, and pass-word protected. Jim was a good hacker – had even managed to get into the school records once – but it had taken him half an hour to get access to the page. The platform had seemed harmless enough, backpackers chatting about cheap hostels and ‘non-touristy place’, but there’d been that one user who had casually dropped a place called ‘El Escondrijo’ into the conversation.

_Go check it out, it’s cheap & ppl don’t ask a lot of questions. Ek’man’shi._

Jim knew enough Vulcan by now to understand the phrase: _safe place_. None of the other users had taken much notice of the comment, but Jim had had the distinct feeling that the preceding and the following chat sounded kind of stilted… like someone pretending to have a conversation to cover up something else. At least, Jim hoped it was that.

It was Sylon’s best chance. His only chance, really.

“I didn’t write it down,” Jim said after he had told Sylon the address details. “Didn’t think it would be a good idea. Can you remember all that?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Coming from a human, this question would have sounded kind of abrasive, but Sylon seemed genuinely confused.

“Vulcans have eidetic memory,” Spock said. “He will not forget.”

Jim nodded. “Good. Go and find that place. And keep the hat on.”

Sylon didn’t exactly look human with Jim’s baseball cap pulled down over his eyes… but to a passing, indifferent glance, he would not immediately stand out as a Vulcan.

“They might not help me,” Sylon said quietly, his hands clenching on the jacket he was holding. “Perhaps they will ask for money. I have none.”

“Fifty credit’s all I got,” Jim said. “Frank’ll notice if I take more.”

Sylon took the credit chips. “Jim…” He still sounded unsure, using the name rather than the honorific ‘sir’.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you helping me?”

Jim shrugged. The truth was, as so often in his life, that he hadn’t thought about it. He just _did_ stuff. The whys and wherefores came later, if at all.

But Sylon clearly wanted an answer.

“I guess… I guess I’d want someone to help me if I was in your situation. So it’s only fair I do the same for you.”

The Vulcan boy thought about this. “There is a certain logic in your reasoning,” he said then, sounding so grave and earnest that Jim grinned.

“I have my moments.”

And it seemed okay then – Sylon seemed okay when they said goodbye (he looked determined not to let any feelings show, and Jim realized that it would be cruel to mention the plain fear that was written so clearly across the boy’s face). It seemed okay when Spock and he climbed down from the hayloft and went back to the house, knowing full well that if everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t see Sylon again.

It seemed okay when Jim went to bed that night, plugging his ears and listening to _The Beast_ on full blast. It even seemed okay when he stared at the ceiling, trying not to think of a little boy all alone in a foreign city, depending only on the mercy of strangers and the good will of Fate, if there was such a thing.

It seemed okay until the very moment he was woken by the familiar slam of the screen door, and went downstairs to find Frank dragging a white-faced Sylon into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love to hear what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

This time, Jim didn’t lie to the police. There was no sense in it; Sylon had his backpack, some of his old clothes, even his padds. And he had the map Jim had printed, neatly folded in the pocket of Jim’s jacket. The evidence of his aiding and abetting a runaway Vulcan was more than enough.

The only lie he tried to tell was that Spock hadn’t been involved. Spock made short work of that, stating at once, that yes, he had indeed known of the boy hiding in the barn, and had helped his master’s nephew plan the escape. Jim could have strangled him.

The police officers were the same they had met before, Meyer and Rogers, this time accompanied by their staff captain, Elena Combs, a fiftyish lady who Jim knew pretty much kept her cool no matter what. She merely sighed when she saw him.

“Jim, really? You have to screw things up in literally every possible way?”

He had no answer to that. He was sitting on the kitchen chair where she had directed him, and found that the best possible option for him was to stare at his knees in silence. Behind him, Spock stood like statue carved from stone, his head lowered. Except for admitting that he had been involved, he hadn’t said a word.

Staff Captain Combs turned to Frank. “You discovered the boy on your property?”

“Trying to sneak off of it,” Frank said, glancing down at the picture of misery that was Sylon. “Good thing I just happened to come home.”

_From one of your late-night beer runs_ , the voice in Jim’s head that just wouldn’t shut up said. His mouth, thankfully, was too dry to vocalize the thought.

Meyer came back from the hallway where he’d been talking on his padd. “They’ll be here in a few minutes,” he said. “They were relieved to hear that the boy’s fine.”

Fine was a relative term, Jim thought. Sylon was cowering on the kitchen floor like a puppy expecting to be kicked, clutching Jim’s old jacket like a lifeline. He wasn’t crying, but his hands shook badly.

“Officers,” Frank said, “I swear I had no idea. If I’d known what they were doing…” He trailed off, casting a murderous look at Jim and Spock.

Jim bit his lip. The police had arrived just in time to stop Frank from really starting on them. His left cheek still burned from the first heavy-handed blow.

Combs sighed again. “Well, I’m afraid it’s going to be more than a slap on the wrist for your nephew this time. What he did was a federal offense. There’ll be a court hearing, of course… and some time in Juvi, I’d say.”

“Good,” Frank said with feeling. “I’m not paying a single goddamn fine, I don’t care how long you lock him up for. Maybe jail will finally teach him _something_. I know I’ve given up.”

Jim let the words wash past him, his eyes still fixed on his knees. They’d always threatened to send him to Juvi one day (or a boot camp, if Frank was feeling particularly vindictive), but he’d never wasted much thought on it. Adults said a lot of things when they were angry. Jim hardly cared enough to take them seriously.

“And as for you…” Frank turned to Spock, and it was only then that Jim raised his head. “You’re lucky if I don’t call a trader first thing in the morning.”

“No!” Jim hated that his voice was shaking. “It was my fault. I _made_ him help me.”

“You’re already in deep enough shit, Jim, so just shut up.”

Jim dug his teeth deeper into his lip. He’d felt like this only a few times in life – like he’d been plunged into a nightmarish version of reality, with the realization slowly growing at the back of his mind that no, he wasn’t going to wake up.

“I checked the records,” Rogers said. “The boy’s sister ran away, too. Hasn’t been caught yet. I guess the little idiot was trying to find her.”

“They do that,” Combs said. “Running away to join their family, even if there’s almost no chance of them finding each other. Not exactly logical, if you ask me. Just a few days ago we caught one trying to get to his wife, who’d been sold overseas. He actually tried to stow away on board the shuttle. We keep telling owners to watch their Vulcans after selling one of them, but people can’t seem to get it into their heads that every single one of them will run off if they get half a chance.”

“That’s why this one’s locked up every night,” Frank said, narrowing his eyes at Spock. “Maybe I should put him in leg-cuffs, too. No more sneaking around when I’m not looking. Goddamn green-blooded little shit.”

Combs glanced at Spock, who still hadn’t moved, and back at Frank. “You know that you’re required by law to discipline him? If you prefer, one of my officers can see to it.”

“Thanks, but no need,” Frank said. “He’s had it coming, and I’ll be glad to do it myself.”

“What do you mean?” Jim felt as if a cold hand had grabbed his stomach and twisted it. The expression on Frank’s face when he looked at Spock was without pity, as if he’d like nothing better than to start the ‘disciplining’ right this minute. He was used to drunk Frank, who punched first and asked questions later, but this was different. Frank seemed to be _looking forward_ to this.

Combs turned to look at Jim, her eyebrows raised. “That’s your problem right there, Jim. I told you before. You don’t _think_. Of course there’s a punishment if a Vulcan helps another Vulcan run away, and if their owner won’t see to it that it’s administered, the law will. Didn’t you just once stop to think what would happen to your little Vulcan buddy if you were caught? Just once?”

Jim’s stomach was given another painful twist. She was right. He _hadn’t_ considered the consequences for Spock. He hadn’t thought.

“It was my idea,” he whispered, which he knew was ridiculous even as he said it. They didn’t care whose idea it had been.

Frank opened his mouth, probably to start another tirade on his idiot nephew, when the doorbell sounded. Sylon winced at the sound and seemed to become even smaller, as if trying to make himself invisible.

“That’s them,” Meyer said. “I’ll go get the door.”

“On your feet, boy,” Rogers said, nudging Sylon with his boot. “Come on now, get up. Show some manners.”

Sylon obeyed, climbing slowly to his feet. He was still dressed in one of Jim’s old sweaters, which was far too large for him and made him look even younger. His face was completely white. Jim’s jacket lay forgotten on the floor.

Jim heard Meyer talking, then a man and a woman’s voices. He glanced at Sylon. The boy’s eyes looked impossibly large and bright.

When Sylon’s owners came in, Jim was surprised. After hearing the circumstances of the little Vulcan’s escape, he’d imagined ‘Master Lucas’ to be a brute-faced thug and his wife some modern version of Cruella de Vil. The man who came in, though… he could’ve been an English teacher at Jim’s school with his old-fashioned glasses and beard. His wife had her curly red hair up in an untidy ponytail, and smiled when she saw Sylon.

“It’s him! Thank God!” Mrs. Lucas grabbed Sylon’s shoulders and shook him slightly. “Don’t you ever do this again, you hear me? You had your poor granny scared to death!”

Jim thought of Sylon’s _‘te’la’komekh’_ , and wondered if they were talking about the same person.

Mr. Lucas, meanwhile, had turned to Frank. “I apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you for calling the police right away.”

“No trouble at all,” Frank said, uncharacteristically polite. “I’m sorry about my nephew and the houseboy. Teenagers, you know.”

His laugh sounded fake, but Mr. Lucas didn’t seem to notice. “Well, you needn’t worry, we won’t be filing any charges. I guess those two are in enough trouble as it is.”

“At least you took care of him,” Mrs. Lucas said to Jim. She turned Sylon this way and that, inspecting him carefully. “Really, Sylon, you could’ve hurt yourself badly playing around with that candle lighter. Look at your neck!”

“Like you care,” Jim said. He knew he should keep his mouth shut, that he was making things worse, but somehow, the words came out and couldn’t be stopped. “He still has bruises from where you whipped him.”

“Of course we whipped him,” Mrs. Lucas said matter-of-factly, pressing her finger to the back of Sylon’s blackened collar. It fell open with a click. “He has to learn that he can’t touch any padds or computers without our permission. You know that now, don’t you, Sylon?”

“Yes, madam,” Sylon mumbled, looking at his feet.

“Good. As for that thing, I guess it’s ruined.” She sighed as she put the burned collar into her pocket. “Allan, do you have the new one?”

Mr. Lucas reached into his pocket and handed her what was obviously a brand new children’s collar. This one was green with blue dots. Jim felt sick when he saw that there was a short leash attached to it.

Mrs. Lucas smiled a little as she put it around the boy’s neck. “Well, the new color suits you, at least. We’ll program it at home.”

She held the leash loosely in one hand, petting Sylon’s hair with the other. “Poor little guy, you look so thin and pale. Why would you do such a stupid thing?”

She didn’t seem to expect an answer, and Sylon didn’t give her one. He looked as if he wanted to duck away from her touch, but didn’t quite dare.

Mr. Lucas was signing a form Captain Combs had handed him. “Thank you for your help, officers, Mr. Henke. You may have seen that there was a reward for returning the boy to us. If you give me your account details, I’ll transfer it to you by tomorrow. We’re really very grateful.”

“Oh, well, I had no idea, but if you insist… that’s very kind.”

Jim knew his uncle was lying to the man’s face; even before he’d started shouting at Jim and Spock, he had checked the news pages for the exact amount he would be getting for Sylon.

Frank scribbled his account number on the man’s padd, and Mr. Lucas put it in his pocket. “Well, I guess everybody would like to get back to bed. We’d better be going. Thanks again for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” Frank said. His smile was genuine this time, which didn’t surprise Jim, given the neat sum of money this night’s unexpected discovery had earned him. “Keep an eye on that little runaway of yours.”

“We will.” Mrs. Lucas followed her husband to the door, leading Sylon behind her like a puppy. “Come on, Sylon. Time to go home.”

Sylon obeyed silently, but just before they were out the door, he stopped abruptly, causing the leash to tighten. He turned his head and looked straight at Jim. “ _Tra’halt-tor’ai_ ,” he said. “ _Kup’tu if srashiv-tor_.”

Mrs. Lucas smacked the back of the boy’s head. “Sylon! What did I say about talking that gibberish? Behave yourself!”

She pulled the boy out the door, and it was the last Jim saw of him. He heard them walking out the front door, heard an aircar door slam and an engine start up.

Jim knew he wouldn’t see Sylon again, but the boy’s parting words would stay with him. Of that he was sure.

_Go there. You can make it_.

“So,” Combs said. “We’re off then, too. Your nephew’s under house arrest, Mr. Henke. Please make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. An officer will be by tomorrow, to take his statement and… you know.”

She nodded at Spock, and Jim felt that icy hand on his stomach again. “What are you going to do?”

Combs ignored him as if he hadn’t said anything, but Frank looked at him. His eyes were cold.

“Don’t worry, Jimmy. You’ll be there, front row. I guess it’s time you learned a few things the hard way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Please note that this chapter contains violence and potentially disturbing images.

“No.”

Jim’s chair had fallen over with a loud crash, but he didn’t bother picking it up. He stared at the two men still seated. They were actually _serious_.

“No way.”

“Jim,” Officer Meyer said. “Don’t be stupid. It’s going to happen anyway, and this could make a difference on your record. You might not even go to Juvi if you show that you can learn from your mistakes.”

Jim had been surprised to see it was Meyer who had come to take his statement, rather than Rogers. Meyer hadn’t struck him as that kind of asshole… until now.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m gonna do that.”

“Jim!” Frank bellowed. “I’m sorry, officer. I don’t know what gets into him.”

“It’s okay,” Meyer said. “Listen, Jim. It’ll be easier on both of you, don’t you think? And the Vulcan is going to get punished anyway. I’m here to witness that it’s been done.”

“I’m not going to whip Spock!” Jim shouted. “You’re crazy if you think you can make me!”

“You’ll do as you’re told!” Frank had gotten up as well. “It’s time you realized that life isn’t all about skipping school and getting away with shit! If this is what it takes to make you grow up, then that’s what you’ll do! You hear me?”

Jim crossed his arms, mostly to hide his shaking hands. “You can’t make me, Frank.”

“We’ll see about that.” Frank went to the pantry door, which had been locked all morning; nothing Jim had said had convinced his uncle to let Spock out. Until now, it seemed. Frank touched a button, and the lock disengaged with a click.

“Get out here, Spock.”

Spock came out, calm but a little paler than usual. Jim knew that the Vulcan boy had heard every word that had been spoken.

“Spock,” Meyer said sternly. “Do you understand the nature of your infraction?”

“Yes, sir,” Spock said. Only someone who knew him as well as Jim could have noticed the slight hitch in his voice.

“Explain it to me.”

“I assisted another Vulcan in his attempt to escape.”

“What is the punishment required by law?”

“The guilty party is to receive a corporal punishment consisting of a minimum of eighty lashes, but no more than one hundred and fifty, with a whip or similar instrument,” Spock recited, as if he were answering an exam question.

“If Jim were the one to administer your punishment, the judge might consider it a sign of contrition,” Meyer said. “He might avoid time in juvenile detention. What would be the logical course of action for him?”

“To do as you ask him,” Spock said immediately.

“No!” Jim couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “I am _not_ going to do that!”

Spock met his eyes for the first time. “Jim,” he said quietly. “I would rather it were you.”

Spock’s use of his name in front of the two adults stopped Jim short. Spock had no other way of showing how serious he was – if he talked in the _tsatik lakh_ , he’d get them both in even more hot water. But it seemed that Spock was trying to say a lot more, his dark eyes boring into Jim’s. They had spent a lot of time together, and there had been moments when Jim had felt very close to the Vulcan boy, closer than he’d ever felt to anyone else – and there had been that time when their hands had touched and something like an electric shock had run through Jim, unexpected and like nothing he had ever felt before. That closeness was back now, and it felt as if they were alone in the room, communicating in a way only they knew about.

To his shame, Jim felt tears rise into his eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Yes you can.” Frank grabbed his arm, breaking the moment. “Outside. Now.”

Jim tried to struggle, but his uncle marched him to the screen door, opened it and pushed him through. Spock and the police officer followed them.

“Here.” Frank grabbed something from the porch table, and Jim saw that it was a whip, black and ugly.

“Where the fuck did you get that?”

“Of course I’ve got a whip,” Frank said, as if Jim had asked the most stupid question imaginable. “First thing I bought before I got Pointy here.”

Jim had never seen the thing before, and refused to take it when Frank tried to push it into his hands. “Fuck you.”

Frank’s face was red, and Jim knew that if Meyer wasn’t here, he would have been ducking away from his uncle’s blows by now.

“Goddamn little shit.”

Frank threw the whip down at Jim’s feet, and turned to Spock. “You. Take off your clothes.”

Jim half-wished that Spock would refuse, but of course he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been logical. Pale but outwardly calm, Spock began to pull off the baggy sweater he was wearing, folded it carefully and put it down on the porch table. Then he did the same thing with his t-shirt and his jeans, until he stood there in nothing but his underpants. Jim had known Spock was thin, but he’d never seen it so clearly, had never seen those ribs stand out under the pale skin, or the sunken stomach. He’d also never seen the greenish scars that formed an irregular pattern of lines on Spock’s back.

“Those too,” Frank said, pointing at the underpants.

“You’re sick,” Jim said, wishing his voice wouldn’t shake so bad. “You sick fuck.”

“Jim,” Meyer said, putting a hand on his arm. “It’s up to your uncle how the boy’s punished.”

Jim shook off the man’s arm, turning his eyes away as Spock pulled off his underpants. He still saw, though. He’d known that Vulcans looked different down there, that their penis was sheathed, but it was still strange to see it. Frank was staring openly. Jim had never hated his uncle more.

It was warm outside, for an autumn day, but Spock had broken out in goose bumps, and seemed hard pressed not to wrap his arms around himself.

Frank took something else from the porch table. A length of rope, Jim saw.

“Hands,” Frank ordered, and Spock silently held out his hands, not moving as Frank tied them together in front of him.

“Come on now.” Grabbing Spock’s arm, Frank dragged him down the porch steps and over to the fence that surrounded the vegetable patch. There, he pushed the boy to his knees and used the dangling ends of the rope to tie Spock’s hands to a fence post. Tightening the knots, he turned to Jim.

“Get the whip and come here.”

Jim just shook his head. He couldn’t speak.

“Jim,” Meyer said quietly. “You realize that your uncle is going to whip him a lot harder than you would. You could stop at seventy-five and I wouldn’t say a word.”

Jim wanted to punch the man, but the horrible thing was that he was right. This new Frank who enjoyed staring at naked Vulcan boys _would_ do just that. Spock seemed to know it, too; he had asked Jim to be the one to punish him.

Meyer picked up the whip, and this time Jim took it. Somehow, his feet began walking down the porch steps; it felt as if they weren’t even part of his body anymore.

“Stand here,” Frank said, pointing to a spot about five feet behind Spock. Jim did, still feeling disconnected from his body and what it was doing.

He stood there, arms slack, the whipcord curling in the dust next to his sneakers. His hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly keep a grip on the whip, much less raise it and… do what? He didn’t even know how you were supposed to do this.

“Go on now,” Frank said impatiently. “Don’t play dumb.”

Jim looked at the thin back with its faded green lines, put there by some person who knew exactly how to do this thing, and back at Frank.

“I… I can’t.”

It was the literal truth; he couldn’t. His hand wouldn’t move, and even if it had, Jim knew that he could not raise it, could not even make a pathetic attempt at striking that huddled figure on the ground.

“Oh for God’s sake!” Frank came striding towards him, grabbed the whip from his hand and pushed Jim so hard that he stumbled. “Get out of the way.”

Frank took his position behind Spock and raised the whip. Jim forced himself not to look away.

It took a long time for Spock to make a sound. He didn’t even gasp at the first few blows, only gripped the fence post harder. Frank seemed to take this as a challenge, and drew back further, brought his arm down harder. The smack-smack-smack resounded in Jim’s ears, and he didn’t even care that he was crying.

It seemed to go on forever, the whip cutting through the air and painting new lines on the bare skin. Eventually, some of those lines filled with green that began to trickle down Spock’s back. Frank kept up his pace, his face sweaty and red from the exertion, and when he drew back the whip once again some of the blood spattered on Jim’s face and hands. Meyer was keeping an iron grip on his arm – whether to hold him upright or to keep him from attacking Frank, Jim didn’t know.

At that point, Spock could no longer keep the pained sounds suppressed. He was slumped against the fence, hanging from the ropes that bound his wrists to the post, and shuddered every time the whip came down. Blood was flowing freely down his back, leaving bright green spots on the dusty ground.

Frank still kept going. It was then that Spock began to gasp and wheeze hoarsely, and Jim realized that the Vulcan boy was crying. Not like a human would have cried, sobbing and screaming – there were no tears. Just those quiet, grating gasps.

“I think that’s enough,” Meyer said eventually. He was still holding on to Jim. “You don’t want to damage him permanently.”

Frank lowered the whip, wiping his sweaty face on his sleeve. “I lost count at some point. It was eighty?”

“More than that,” Meyer said dryly. “This should do. I’ll report to the supervisory board that the Vulcan received his punishment in compliance with the law.”

Jim shook off the officer’s hand and spat at the man’s feet. “Fuck you both!”

“That’s enough of that, Jim,” Meyer said. “You don’t want a citation for verbal slander on top of everything else. I’ll be going then, Mr. Henke. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Yeah,” Frank said distractedly. He was looking at the barely conscious Vulcan with a strange expression, the whip dangling forgotten from his hand. Jim had seen this look before, mostly when Frank recovered from a drinking bout and saw the new shiner or bruise he’d put on his nephew’s face.

Frank remained standing where he was, watching with that empty expression as Jim went over to Spock and knelt down next to the other boy. Up close, Spock’s back looked even worse, dark green welts interspersed with bloody furrows as if someone had drawn a fork across his back. Frank must have hit the same spots twice to break the skin like that.

Still moving on autopilot, Jim began to work on the knots that tied Spock to the fence post. It was difficult, as Spock had slumped down and pulled the knots tight with his weight. Jim’s trembling fingers weren’t really up to the job. He tugged at the rope, but all he seemed to achieve was tightening the knots even further.

“Here.” Frank appeared next to him, holding out a pair of pruners. Jim took them without looking at his uncle, and began to cut through the rope. When it finally came apart, Spock’s hands dropped like stones and he would have slumped to the ground if Jim hadn’t caught him.

He pulled Spock’s arm across his shoulders, and somehow, Spock managed to stumble to his feet. Most of his weight was on Jim, and for such a skinny guy, he was really heavy. Jim shook his head when Frank made to help him.

“I’ve got it.”

He didn’t, not really; getting up the porch steps was more stumbling and dragging than walking. He had to grab Spock’s back more than once, which made the Vulcan boy wince and hiss with pain. Frank didn’t try to help again. He’d sat down on the bottom step, his back turned, lighting himself a smoke. The whip lay curled at his feet.

Somehow, Jim managed to push open the screen door and help Spock limp into the kitchen. Blood was still trickling from the open wounds, running down Spock’s back and legs and leaving a trail of green drops on the floor. Jim was aware that Spock was still naked, and that it should have been incredibly awkward – he’d never been that close to a naked person before, or touched one. It wasn’t, though. Jim hardly spared a thought on it. All that mattered was getting Spock to his poor excuse for a bed and help him lie down.

The Vulcan boy was breathing heavily by the time he was lying prone on his mattress. His eyes were half-closed, and his face seemed to have lost all color. He was trembling badly – from the cold or the pain, Jim didn’t know. He’d read that people could go into shock after an injury, and that it was really dangerous, but he had no idea if that was true for Vulcans, too.

Jim grabbed one of the neatly folded blankets Spock had left at the foot of his bed, and spread them over the shaking boy’s legs. He didn’t think he should cover up Spock’s back, raw and bloody as it was.

“C-could…” Spock coughed, then continued in a hoarse whisper. “Water, please.”

“I’ll get you some.” Jim got up, relieved to be able to _do_ something. He filled one of Frank’s precious, humans-only glasses with water and carried it back to Spock. Drinking was a bit of a problem, since Spock could hardly push himself up on his elbows, but together they managed. Spock drank most of the water, then sighed and slumped back down.

“Thank you.”

Jim had made a brief stop at the downstairs bathroom, and took a bottle of pills from his pocket. “You should take some of these.”

Spock’s bleary eyes focused on the aspirin. “It… is not permitted.”

“What?”

“Pain relief is not permitted after corporal punishment. If your uncle sees…”

“He can go fuck himself.” Jim shook some of the pills out of the bottle. “Uh, can Vulcans take these?”

“There are… no adverse side effects.” Without further protests, Spock washed down three of the pills with the rest of the water. Jim pocketed the bottle.

“I’ll get you more when those wear off.”

Spock closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

Jim leaned against the wall next to Spock’s bed. He could feel the shaking of his hands lessen – it wasn’t gone, but he no longer felt as if he had no control over his body, as if things were happening around and to him without his control. He thought that he had regained enough control to get up, if he wanted, go into the kitchen, open one of the drawers Spock had so neatly organized, take out one of those big-ass kitchen knives, walk out onto the porch and…

“Jim.”

Jim looked down. Spock’s eyes were open, and he was looking at him – not with his usual clear gaze, but awake nevertheless. Awake and worried.

“Jim… such thoughts… they are dangerous. Even if they are not acted upon.”

Jim didn’t ask how Spock knew. He didn’t really have to. This… thing, this feeling, had been there for a while, and if he had never said anything about it to Spock, it was because he had no words for it. Neither of them did.

“I want to kill him.”

“You do not.” Spock swallowed; talking seemed to take its toll of him. “He is… your uncle. And you are not a murderer.”

Jim said nothing. That man out there was not his uncle, no matter if he was related to his mom.

“ _Sanu_ ,” Spock said quietly. “ _Fam-tor fan-vel duhik… Jim t’nashveh_.” [Please, don’t do anything stupid… my Jim].

He said nothing after that, and Jim remained where he was, sitting with his knees drawn to his chest while Spock’s breathing slowly evened out.

He sat there for most of the day, watching over Spock as he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate your thoughts and feedback!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, I'm blown away by the response to this story! Thank you all for reading and commenting - your feedback is greatly appreciated!

From: _The Journal of Medical Ethics_ , Vol. 233, Issue 10 (10/23/2245)

Author: R. Braden, M.D.

Review of ‘ _Physician, Heal Thyself: Racial Bias and the Falsification of Empirical Data in Contemporary Medical Science’_ , An Essay By Leonard H. McCoy

[…] Before all else, let’s take a moment to marvel at the sheer audacity it takes for a newcomer to the field to publish an essay such as this. We stand astounded at the writer’s temerity in attacking not only accredited experts of the field, but going even further by implying that the entire contemporary research of xenopsychology is based on false or misrepresented information.

[…] We shall overlook McCoy’s tendency to affect an overly moralistic, ‘country-doctor’ diction which does little credit to his intellectual capabilities. Likewise, we shall not mention the tasteless parallels he draws between human (!) minorities and their histories of suppression and discrimination, and the Vulcan situation. What cannot be ignored, however, is McCoy’s conclusion that the internationally accepted dichotomy of ‘human’ and ‘sentient non-human’, with all its legal and indeed, ethical, implications, must be reconsidered. It stands to reason that a traditional institution like the University of Georgia will not condone such ridiculous beliefs within its academic program, or support them by extending a scholarship that is so clearly undeserved. While academic discourse thrives on innovative thinking, there is a fine line between an open mind and childish provocation. One hopes that the latter will not set the standard for future contributions.

**Personal Message from Prof. Rita Danaher to Leonard H. McCoy:**

_First reviews are online; I’m sure you’ve seen. Leonard, this is out of my hands now. The board’s withdrawing your scholarship, and I’m not sure they won’t be kicking you out. I don’t know what to say to you, except that it’s a damn shame about your xeno Ph.D. Would’ve been one of the best I’ve supervised in years._

###

Spock was not well.

It took Jim a few days to notice. Spock didn’t really give away much, and if Jim saw him moving more slowly than usual, or looking paler, he ascribed it to the chafing wounds on Spock’s back. Frank had allowed the boy half a day of rest after the whipping, and after that had ordered him back to work. Spock said nothing, of course, doing his chores as diligently as usual, although they tended to take him longer than before. Jim tried to help where he could, one more reason why he was glad that he was still suspended from school.

Spock was making dinner that night when Jim finally realized that the Vulcan boy was not getting better. Usually, Spock’s movements were swift and sure, and his handling of the various foods, implements and spices implied that he knew exactly what he was doing. He tended to use forks and tongs a lot – Vulcans did not like to touch food with their hands, and Spock stuck to that even when preparing a meal that was not for himself.

Tonight, he didn’t seem to care. He washed the potatoes using his hands and dropped them carelessly into the pot, ignoring the one that missed its target and bounced off the stove and onto the floor. Spock just kicked it aside, something Jim had never seen him do. When he put the steaks into the frying pan (for this he did use a fork; Spock would never in his life touch dead meat), some of the fat bubbled up and spattered onto his hand.

“ _Ponfo mirann_!” Spock jumped back, grimacing with pain and disgust. Only now, Jim noticed the bright green flush on the Vulcan boy’s cheeks, and the thin film of sweat on his forehead.

“Here, let me.” Jim turned down the heat, using the fork to turn the steaks around. Frank would be pissed if they were burned. “You should put some cold water on that.”

Spock turned on the tap to cool his burned hand. “Eating parts of mutilated animal corpses is barbaric,” he muttered.

“You make us sound like zombies.”

“If that term implies an inclination to feast on dead flesh, it is an apt description.”

Jim blinked. He’d never heard Spock talk like that. “Are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”

“I am functional.” Spock coughed. “I shall resume my task, thank you.”

Spock was distracted all through serving them dinner, and finally managed to knock over Frank’s beer, spilling it all over the table.

“Watch it, will you? Look at that goddamn mess!”

Frank rapped his knife hard across Spock’s fingers. Spock made no sound, but Jim saw his hands shake slightly as he wiped down the table.

Jim offered to clean up the kitchen when they were done, and Spock did not even make a token protest. Ignoring the scraps Frank had set aside for him, he disappeared into his room. Thankfully, Frank had left as soon as dinner was over, and couldn’t come up with another job for Spock just for the sake of it.

Jim loaded the dishwasher, then wiped down the surfaces the way he had seen Spock do it. The Vulcan boy had taught him quite a few things about household chores, but had been very tight-lipped when Jim asked where he had learned them. ‘I was required to do various tasks,’ was all Jim had gotten.

Spock’s ‘dinner’ was still sitting on the counter, untouched. Frank had scraped potatoes and pieces of steak into the bowl, effectively ruining any chance there had been of making the left-overs edible for Spock. Jim sighed. He’d told Frank that Spock wouldn’t eat meat, but his uncle either forgot or didn’t care. Probably the latter.

Jim grabbed a bread roll and an apple, then went to knock on the pantry door. “Spock!”

There was no reply.

“Spock!” Jim knocked harder. When there was no response, he opened the door carefully.

Spock was curled up on his mattress with his back to the door, his blankets cocooned around him. All Jim could see were a few black strands of hair sticking up.

“I got you dinner.”

“I am not hungry.” Spock’s voice was muffled by the blankets.

“You gotta eat something, though. It’s not left-overs,” Jim added, crouching down next to Spock’s bed. Something didn’t smell so good. Some people said that Vulcans stank of alien body odor, but Jim had never noticed that Spock smelled of anything except the soap he used and sometimes cleaning agents.

Now, the smell that lingered in the air reminded him of rotting apples, sweet and foul at the same time.

Carefully, he tugged at the blanket Spock had drawn over his face. “Come on, Spock. Eat something.”

“I do not wish to!”

Spock had never snapped at him like that. The face that peered up at Jim from between the blankets was flushed green, the dark eyes glassy.

“You look sick,” Jim said. “You have a fever, don’t you?”

“It is of no importance. If your uncle does not need me, I would like to sleep now.”

“What’s that smell?” Jim asked. “Is that… does that happen when Vulcans get sick?”

“I do not know what you mean.” Spock was a bad liar, and Jim knew at once that the Vulcan boy was hiding something.

“Yes you do. You gotta tell me what’s wrong, Spock.”

Spock glared at him. “Is that an order, _sir_?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Spock glared a moment longer, then seemed to get tired and closed his eyes. He sighed. “There is nothing you can do about it.”

“Maybe there is.”

“There is not.”

“You don’t know that.”

Spock sighed again and pressed his lips into a tight line. “You are being annoying.”

“So are you.”

"This is illogical,” Spock said. “You should leave.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the most logical person. Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong, Spock?”

There was a pause, and Jim was beginning to wonder if Spock had decided to pretend to fall asleep. Then, “My… back. There seems to be some kind of infection.”

Jim swallowed. He’d had an infection once, after stepping on a rusty nail when he’d been running around barefoot. His foot had swollen up to almost twice its size, and Mom had taken him to the hospital where they had given him antibiotic hyposprays. But that had been one small wound. Spock’s back was a different story.

“Can… can I take a look?”

Spock said nothing for a moment. When he did speak, he avoided looking at Jim. “I seem to be unable to… take off my t-shirt.”

Jim winced. “Is it, uh, stuck?”

Spock nodded, still not looking at him.

“D’you want me to help you? I’ll be careful.”

“I…” Spock hesitated. “I am not sure how to proceed. Taking it off by force will reopen the wounds, and I wish to avoid that.”

Not to mention that it’ll sting like hell, Jim thought. “Wait a moment. I’ll go get some stuff. Maybe there’s a way we can get it off without hurting you more.”

There was not, as he discovered when Spock had pulled off his sweater. Spock’s t-shirt was not simply stuck; it was soaked through with green blood and some brownish secretion, probably the Vulcan version of pus. In some places the fluids had congealed and more or less fused the shirt to the open wounds. Jim knew as soon as he saw it that there would be a lot of pain involved in getting it off. He didn’t know how Spock had moved around, mopped the floor, carried the laundry outside and cooked dinner these last few days. Every movement must have burned and stung like hell.

Spock did his best not to make a sound as Jim set to work, and Jim did his best to ignore the occasional wince or hiss of pain. He had brought a bowl with warm water and a few towels, along with some disinfectant. Slowly, carefully, he began dabbing the shirt with a wet towel, working his way up from the hem. The smell got worse with every piece of fabric he tugged off. Spock’s skin seemed to emanate heat, and whenever he touched it, there was that strange electricity, that feeling as if something was passing through his fingertips, burning along his nerve tracts and leaving an imprint in his brain.

The welts looked worse than they had right after the whipping; dark green and swollen. Fresh blood welled up whenever Jim freed another cut, but that was good, or at least he hoped so – maybe the blood would wash the wounds clean. He didn’t know. He didn’t even know if Vulcans could be given antibiotics for infections.

“You need to see a doctor.”

Spock winced as another piece of fabric came off. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? This looks a mess.”

Spock was silent.

“Spock, you gotta-”

“There are no doctors for Vulcans,” Spock said, his teeth clenched. “There are veterinary clinics, and I do not wish to go there. It is not an option, anyway. Your uncle would not pay the fees.”

“Veterinary clinics?” Jim repeated. “You’re not a dog.”

“According to your laws, we are sentient animals. Hence the veterinary clinics.”

“Have you been to one of those?”

Spock nodded. “It is not an experience I want to repeat.”

Jim began to work on the last bit of blood-soaked fabric. “I don’t think this’ll get better on its own.”

“If I am allowed sufficient rest, it might.”

Jim said nothing, because there wasn’t much he _could_ say. Frank would not allow Spock to ‘lounge about’, as he had put it. ‘It’s your own fault,’ he’d said, the morning after the whipping when Spock limped into the kitchen to fix their breakfast. ‘Gotta learn to deal with the consequences of your actions.’

Which, Jim had thought, was rich coming from someone who acted like he was dying every time he had a hangover.

Jim had worked Spock’s shirt all the way up, exposing the welts and cuts underneath. He wasn’t a doctor, but even he could see that there was a severe infection going on with all the swelling and the strange smell. And if Spock put on another shirt that chafed and irritated the inflammated wounds while he worked, his condition would likely get worse and worse.

“Let’s take that off,” Jim said, helping Spock pull the ruined shirt over his head. Spock looked exhausted and pale, save for the two bright green spots on his cheeks.

“Those… veterinary clinics,” Jim said. “Could they give you an antibiotic there? Maybe if we called, they could just beam it over.”

“They will not,” Spock said. “If the medication damages me, your uncle could sue them. They will want to examine me prior to any prescription.”

Jim didn’t like Spock’s use of the term ‘damage’, as if he were an aircar with a broken engine. “Maybe we can find one that’s not so bad.”

“I had an infected tooth when I was eight,” Spock said softly. “My owner at the time did not wish to pay more than absolutely necessary. He told the veterinarian to forego the hypospray, and they extracted the tooth without anesthetics. My pain control was… not adequate.”

Jim imagined his eight-year-old self at the dentist’s without painkillers; he’d have screamed the place down. “That’s awful.”

“I find that ever since, I haven’t been… fond of the idea of getting treated at one of these facilities.”

“You haven’t been to the doctor since you were eight?”

“I received medical treatment on occasion,” Spock said, determinedly not looking at Jim. “I do not wish to actively seek it out.”

Jim wanted to argue, but he could see that he would be getting exactly nowhere; Spock could be stubborn as hell.

“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you lie down, and get some rest. I’ll get you some tea and stuff. Hey, do you like ‘The Lunar Syndicate’?”

“I am not familiar with it.”

“Really? You know what, I’ll get my padd, and we can watch the pilot episode together.”

Spock made no protest, and remained prone on his mattress, the blanket bunched around his hips, as Jim settled down to introduce him to his favorite show. They had watched about half of the pilot when Jim noticed that Spock’s eyes had drooped closed. The light from the padd threw his alien face into sharp relief, emphasizing the hollows under his eyes. He looked utterly exhausted.

Carefully, Jim arranged the blankets to cover Spock’s arms and legs, then leaned back against the wall to watch the rest of the episode. At some point, Spock actually started to snore softly. Jim grinned. Spock would never admit to something so undignified when he was awake, but here he was, his lips fluttering gently as he breathed.

‘The Lunar Syndicate’ was one of the few shows Jim followed religiously, but today, even the complexities of interplanetary espionage couldn’t quite capture his attention. His eyes kept drifting to Spock’s sleeping face. How did it make sense that he never minded spending time with Spock, when most people tended to grate on his nerves like nails on a blackboard? That he told Spock stuff he’d never told anyone, not even Sam – about answering some of the pop quiz questions wrong, just so he wouldn’t be the only one with 100 % again, or about the man at the quarry who had asked him for a blowjob (Jim had turned around and walked away, acting as if he wasn’t scared shitless). Even about Mom, who hadn’t been home in two years and had ignored his last birthday.

Spock mostly just listened, but Jim never felt as if he had said too much. His secrets were safe with Spock, just like Spock’s were safe with him. There were many things the Vulcan boy had not told him; Jim suspected that some of these things were the reason why Spock sometimes seemed to be a thousand miles away, or why he jumped slightly whenever an adult entered the room. But he had entrusted Jim with his parents’ story, and other private things, like his burning wish to _learn_ , no matter what. There were some of Jim’s school padds hidden under Spock’s mattress now, and it was amazing how the Vulcan boy seemed to inhale knowledge, how he stayed awake after a long day of chores to study the properties of nucleic acids and solve advanced calculus problems.

If they let Spock go to school with him, he’d be every teacher’s favorite. From what Jim understood, _all_ Vulcan children were like that. How was it fair to keep them out of school, when they were the only kids on the planet who _wanted_ to do homework?

How was it fair to treat an entire people like pets? Only that pets weren’t whipped and made to work until they dropped from sickness and exhaustion.

Jim stared at the screen, where the credits were rolling. He hadn’t been paying attention for the last twenty minutes or so. Spock could have told him exactly how long, down to the minute and the second, but Spock was still fast asleep. Good thing, too, although Jim knew that sleeping it off wasn’t going to happen for the Vulcan boy; not when that mess on Spock’s back had been festering away for days.

Acting on the spur of the moment, Jim picked up his padd, closed the holo player and went online. After a moment’s consideration, he typed ‘medical care + Vulcans’ into the search bar.

The first few results were, not surprisingly, homepages of the ‘veterinary clinics’ Spock had mentioned. Jim browsed them out of curiosity. Most of them looked sleek and modern, promising ‘highest quality veterinary care’ and ‘expert treatment’. There were pictures of cute Vulcan children sitting on treatment tables, and smiling human doctors – vets – taking their bio signs. One of them had a link that read ‘Our Breeding Program’. Jim clicked on it and found an introductory note on how you could register a slave and find them a suitable mate to ‘get the offspring you want’. They actually had a database, pictures and all. Some of the Vulcans were marked ‘due soon’, whatever that meant.

Feeling faintly sick (and, once again, stupid – how could he not have known that people were actually doing that, breeding their slaves like livestock), Jim closed the clinic’s homepage and went back to his search results.

Further down, he found pages with household remedies for Vulcan ailments (‘save on those expensive medical fees’), and a page that promised ‘a collection of all traders in your vicinity’.

Jim was about to change his search terms when he noticed the result at the very bottom of the page.

‘Medical care for Vulcans – home visits’, was all it said. Jim opened the page. It didn’t look very professional, as if someone had set it up without the help of a web designer (or a lot of programming expertise).  There was a picture of a young guy, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, who was looking at the camera in a kind of grumpy way, as if he didn’t much like the idea of putting his holo online. ‘Leonard H. McCoy, medical intern at Cedar Rapids Mercy, Iowa’, the caption read. ‘I specialize in xeno-medicine and will treat Vulcan patients for a small compensation. Don’t like vet clinics? Neither do I. Give me a call so we can arrange a home visit.”

There was a padd number at the bottom of the page. Jim hesitated for a second; maybe the page was fake, just a set-up for phishing contact numbers.

It wasn’t professional enough for a scam, though. And there was something he liked about the guy, despite, or maybe because of his grumpy expression.

And he was obviously Spock’s best chance.

Jim clicked on the number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

Leonard H. McCoy answered on the tenth beep, when Jim had almost given up hope of getting through. He looked slightly disheveled, with a five o’clock shadow on his chin and shadows under his eyes to match. From his scrubs and the bio scanner in his breast pocket, Jim guessed that he was at the hospital.

McCoy’s eyes narrowed when he saw Jim. “If this is a prank call, kid, I’m gonna kill you. I’ve been up since four thirty, I’ve had six cases of severe food poisoning with diarrhea, an infected hemorrhoid and a nephrectomy with complications, and I am seriously gonna kill you.”

He had a strong Southern accent that somehow made Jim smile. “It’s not a prank call,” he said quickly before McCoy could hang up. “Really. I’m – I’m Jim Kirk, and I saw that you offer medical care for Vulcans.”

McCoy still looked suspicious. “I don’t see any pointy ears on you, kid.”

“Not for me,” Jim said. “It’s for my… my friend, Spock. He’s been really sick.”

At that, some of the hardness left McCoy’s features. “Your friend, huh?”

Jim nodded, half expecting McCoy to laugh at him for calling a Vulcan his friend. McCoy did nothing of the sort.

“Spock, you say? He a kid like you?”

Jim nodded. “He’s fifteen.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Jim bit his lip. Now for the hard part. “He, uh, I mean, we sort of got in trouble. Spock was, um, punished, and it’s not healing properly. I think it’s infected. He looks like he has a fever.”

McCoy frowned. “When you say punished, you mean whipped? And now the cuts are infected?”

Jim nodded. “His shirt was stuck to them. I helped him get it off, but there’s lots of blood and stuff, and it doesn’t really smell so good.”

McCoy sighed. “I take it your parents don’t know that you’re callin’ me?”

“My uncle,” Jim said. “He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t give a shit. He made Spock get up and work when he was sick and all.”

“All right,” McCoy said. “First things first. Where’s Spock now?”

“Here, sir,” a voice said from behind Jim. Spock’s tone was even, but Jim knew at once that he was pissed off. The Vulcan boy had moved to a sitting position, and leaned forward to look at the padd’s camera. “I apologize for the disruption of your work and the inconvenience. We won’t be requiring your expertise.”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” McCoy held up both hands. “Wait a minute. Jim here says you’ve been sick, and you do look quite green and sweaty to me. Are you running a fever?”

“With all due respect, sir, it is of no consequence, as I shall not be receiving any medical attention.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Now wait just one damned minute. Who says I’m not gonna help you?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I presume your assistance is not free of charge. My owner will not agree to pay for my treatment.”

“Let’s sort that out later,” McCoy said. “Now turn around so I can take a look at your back.”

Jim could see that Spock very much didn’t want to. His obedience to human adults was too deeply ingrained, however, and he slowly turned around, presenting his bare back to the camera.

“Goddammit.” McCoy shook his head. “Yeah, that’s an infection setting in there, alright. How long ago since that was done?”

“Three days,” Jim replied, while Spock simultaneously said, “Two days, eleven hours and sixteen minutes.”

“I can tell you from here that this needs to be drained, cleaned and treated with a derm regenerator. Should be getting better soon with a hypospray or two, but if you leave it like that, you might develop blood poisoning. Have you tried a healing trance?”

Spock turned back around. For some reason, he looked embarrassed by the question. “I… have attempted it. I have not been successful.”

Jim had no idea what Spock was talking about, but it was apparent that McCoy did. The man’s tired face softened as he looked at Spock. “No one ever showed you how, huh?”

Spock lowered his head. “My instructions were… rudimentary.”

McCoy nodded. “I thought so. It’s a shame, that trance is one of the best natural cures I’ve seen, not that I understand the voodoo behind it.” He sighed. “Okay, so much for that. Where d’you live, kid?”

Jim gave him the address. McCoy nodded in a matter-of-fact way. “I get off shift in half an hour. I’d say it’s about a twenty-minute drive from the hospital to your place. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

“Your uncle will not be pleased,” Spock said quietly, which, Jim knew, was an understatement. Frank would be livid.

McCoy laughed, but there was no real humor in the sound. “Don’t worry about the uncle, son. We can deal with him when I get there. Not the first time I’ve been called by someone without their lord and master knowing about it.”

Jim decided that yes, he did like this guy, snarkiness and all. “Cool.”

“I’ll call your padd when I get there. See you then.”

McCoy signed off without further ado. Silence followed, then Spock said: “How are you going to pay for his services? I can only contribute fifteen credits that I have saved, and I doubt that it will be enough.”

That, Jim thought, was going to be only one of their problems.

###

As Spock had predicted, Frank was ‘not pleased’, only that for him, ‘not pleased’ meant ‘yelling and throwing things’. Jim ducked just in time to avoid his uncle’s keys as they came flying at his face. They crashed into the kitchen counter behind him.

“You really have shit for brains, don’t you, Jim? Do you know how much that asshole will charge me for coming here?”

“Spock’s really sick,” Jim said, careful to keep out of arm’s length. “That doctor said he could get blood poisoning if he’s not treated. Do you want him to die?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Those pointies will make you believe they’re on their deathbed when all they have is a stubbed toe. Just want to get out of work, that’s all.”

“Spock’s not like that.” Jim didn’t think any Vulcans were like that, but it was beside the point. “He never said anything. He didn’t even want me to call anyone.”

“Then he’s not as stupid as he looks.”

Jim sighed. “Whatever. Could you unlock his door when the doctor gets here? Please?”

“Get me a beer.”

Jim did, resisting the urge to throw the can at Frank’s stupid head. “Could you?”

Frank made a show of opening the can and taking a large gulp. He put the can on the table, narrowing his eyes at Jim. “Just so you know, I’m not paying a single credit to that quack. I don’t care where you get the money.”

“Okay,” Jim said quickly. “You don’t have to. I’ll sort it out.”

“Sure you will.” Frank lifted the can to his mouth again. “Because you’ve got all that money lying around. Really, Jim, sometimes I wonder who dropped you on your head when you were little. Why do you care, anyway? It’s just a Vulcan.”

Jim bit his lip. If he called Frank any of the words that were running through his head right now, the bastard might refuse to let McCoy treat Spock.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Frank continued to drink his beer and mutter about his nephew’s idiocy, but at least he didn’t prevent Jim from answering when McCoy finally called.

“This the right place?” McCoy asked. It was a voice-only connection, so he was obviously still inside his aircar. “It looks like bumfuck middle of nowhere.”

“Sounds about right,” Jim said. “I’ll get the door for you.”

McCoy was still in his hospital scrubs, carrying an old-fashioned leather case the kind of which Jim had seen in old movies. The aircar he’d parked next to Frank’s van was ancient, and had several deep dents in the passenger door. Jim had always thought that being a doctor paid well, but McCoy didn’t seem to be made of money… rather the opposite, in fact.

“Hey,” he said, feeling slightly awkward. “Glad you could come.”

“Yeah, no problem,” McCoy said. He looked younger in real life, not much older really than the senior kids at Jim’s school. “Want me to talk to your uncle first?”

Jim shook his head. “He’s not happy, but that’s okay. He never really is.”

“Sounds charming.”

Frank was still sitting at the kitchen table when Jim and McCoy came in. He’d opened a second can of beer in the meantime, and lifted it as a sarcastic greeting when he saw McCoy.

“A pleasant evening to you, doctor.”

“Thank you,” McCoy said dryly. “If you don’t mind, I’m here to treat the Vulcan boy, Spock. I take it you’re Jim’s uncle?”

“Unfortunately yes. And before you do anything, I should point out that you’ll have to turn to genius here for any kind of compensation you might want. I didn’t call you, and I’m not paying a single credit.”

Frank leaned back after that little speech, apparently expecting that McCoy would turn on his heels and leave.

“You made your point, sir,” McCoy said, still in that dry tone that said a lot in very few words. “Could you show me where the boy is, please?”

Frank raised his hands. “As you wish. It’s your time you’re wasting.” He went over and tapped the lock on Spock’s door, which disengaged with a soft click. “Knock yourself out.”

Jim followed McCoy into the pantry, feeling ashamed as he saw their surroundings from a stranger’s perspective. The dingy room with its single lightbulb, dirty walls and the threadbare mattress was pathetic enough; the thin and battered figure on the bed completed the picture of misery.

McCoy set his old-fashioned leather case on the floor and knelt down, waiting until the boy on the bed had turned to look at him.

“Hello Spock,” he said. “I’m Leonard McCoy. It’s nice to meet you.”

Spock seemed surprised – whether at the kind tone, or the fact that he had been acknowledged at all, Jim did not know.

“I… apologize for the inconvenience, sir.”

“No need,” McCoy said. “Why don’t you let me take a look at your back.”

Spock looked nervous, but did as he was told, turning onto his front so the doctor could examine his injuries.

McCoy’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Someone did a number on you, alright. Him?” he asked Jim, jerking his head at the door.

Jim nodded. “They wanted me to do it, but…”

He couldn’t explain, but McCoy seemed to understand. He simply nodded and continued his examination, running a bioscanner over Spock and checking the readings on a portable bioscreen.

“Well,” he said finally. “It’s like I suspected, the infection’s set in, hence the discharge and the fever. Vulcans are more prone to infections because their immune systems don’t have natural antibodies to many of our bacteria here on Earth. Plus, you’ve got a slight copper deficiency going on. You getting enough food ‘round here, Spock?”

Spock turned his head to look at the doctor. “I am adequately fed.”

“If you say so. Some beans or nuts once in a while might do you good – lots of copper in those – but I don’t think there’s much use in telling Mr. Congeniality out there.”

“I do most of the shopping,” Jim said quickly. “I’ll get them for him.”

“Good.” McCoy was all business, storing away his scanner and taking out an antiseptic kit. “Now let’s clean up that mess, and I’ll see what I can do with the derm regenerator.”

In spite of his gruff demeanor, McCoy was gentle as he cleaned Spock’s back, swabbing the infected areas and dabbing off most of the blood and discharge. It seemed to be a routine job to him, which made Jim wonder how many Vulcan backs McCoy had treated in his career, how often he’d wiped green blood off pale skin and asked his silent patients if they were getting enough food or sleep. Judging by the doctor’s tired face, there had been a lot.

The derm regenerator McCoy had brought did not work wonders on Spock’s back – as McCoy pointed out, it had been designed with human skin and human cell regeneration in mind, and could only be recalibrated so much. The cuts hadn’t disappeared when the doctor was done, hadn’t even closed entirely, but they were a far cry from the swollen and suppurating wounds of before. Jim could see that in time, they were going to heal – the latest addition to the pattern of thin green scars that lined Spock’s back.

Eventually, McCoy deactivated the regenerator. “It’s as good as it’s gonna get, kid. I’ll give you a broadband antibiotic, and then all we can do is hope for the best. Let that tough hobgoblin immune system work its magic.”

Jim watched as Spock was given the hypo.

“You said you don’t like the vet clinics,” he said. “On your homepage?” he added when McCoy frowned. “Have you been to one of those?”

“Yes,” McCoy said shortly,

“And… they really do that breeding thing?” Jim hadn’t been able to get it out of his head, that people – normal people you saw on the street or at the mall – would actually do something like that.

“Why?” McCoy busied himself storing away his equipment. “Your uncle planning to earn an extra credit or two?”

Jim felt sick – not least because he could actually imagine Frank not being averse to the idea. “I’d kill him if he did,” he said before he could think.

At that, McCoy turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable. “Son… exactly what did you do to get in trouble?”

“We helped this Vulcan kid who was running away,” Jim said, unable to feel the remorse everyone seemed to expect of him. If Sylon was here now, he’d do exactly the same thing again… only that this time, he’d take better care so that Frank wouldn’t ruin everything. “He was only nine,” he added defiantly.

“And you helped, too?” McCoy looked at Spock, who, for once, didn’t lower his eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

McCoy looked torn for a moment, glancing at Jim and back at Spock, as if trying to gauge just how trustworthy the two ragged teens in front of him were.

“They said I’m going to Juvi,” Jim said – if he was, for once, being honest, he might as well tell the full truth. “And just so you know, I can’t pay for the house call. So, yeah. Fraud and all that. You can tell them to add it to the list.”

McCoy smiled a little. “Kid, I never expected you to pay me. I can see that you don’t have any money.”

Jim wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or insulted. “Okay…”

“Why did you come here if you did not expect to be compensated for your assistance?” Spock asked quietly. “It does not seem logical.”

“Son,” McCoy said, “a lot of things aren’t logical.” He paused, then seemed to reach a sudden decision.

He looked at Jim.

“Close the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and the trio is complete! Please let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

Jim closed the door, unsure what to expect as he turned back to McCoy. The doctor didn’t seem perturbed by Jim’s admission of his crime, but then, maybe Jim was interpreting things wrong, and McCoy was about to give him hell.

“Yeah?” he said, somewhat more aggressively than he’d meant to.

“Sit down,” McCoy said. “That uncle of yours doesn’t listen at doors, does he?”

Jim tried to imagine Frank taking enough interest in _anything_ to go to the trouble of eavesdropping. “Naw.”

“Okay,” McCoy said. “When you were helping that kid run away, did you by any chance stumble across something called The Net?”

Jim thought back to his research when he’d been looking for an escape route for Sylon. He’d visited password-protected sites, but he hadn’t come across anything by that name. “No...”

“I… may have heard it mentioned,” Spock said quietly. Jim turned to look at him in surprise.

“You have?”

Spock looked uncomfortable. “Only in passing. The conversation was not meant for me to overhear.”

“What is it?” Jim asked McCoy. “Some kind of underground organisation?”

“Something like that,” McCoy said. “Let’s just say we help people like that runaway kid and leave it at that.”

_We_. Jim stared at the man. “You are-”

“Yes,” McCoy cut him off. “Now, we don’t communicate through unprotected padds or the open web. Too dangerous. I’m not sayin’ I understand much about that kind of thing, but I know enough people who do.”

“You’ve got an encrypted platform.”

McCoy shrugged. “Like I said, I use it, but I don’t really understand it. I’m a doctor, not a programming nerd. All I know is that they’re moving stuff around to prevent us from getting caught. And we haven’t been, so far.”

“What do you do?”

“Kid, you asked me about the breeding programs. They’re only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. There’s a whole industry out there, making millions of credits every day. Hell, you can even order slaves online if you don’t feel like going to the depot. There are trading companies that specialize in children…”

Jim saw Spock wince ever so slightly, but McCoy was too caught up in his speech to notice.

“I’ve got a little girl myself. I don’t want her to grow up in a world where a Vulcan her age can get sold as a sex toy to some pervert.”

He took a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry. Totally inappropriate, I know.”

“So,” Jim said. “You help slaves escape?”

“We do more than that,” McCoy said. “But yeah, that’s the first step.”

“Why are you telling this to us?” Spock asked quietly. “You must know that we cannot be of assistance to you.”

“No… but maybe we can be of assistance to you. And looking at you two…” McCoy sighed. “I have a feeling that you’re gonna need our help, sooner or later.”

Jim shrugged off the last bit; he wasn’t sure what McCoy was talking about, and right now, it didn’t seem important. “If we wanted to contact someone… some of the people you work with. How could we reach you?”

McCoy told him. It wasn’t too difficult, but Jim was impressed with the ingenuity of the programmers who had managed to hide what they were doing in plain sight, making it easily accessible and almost impossible to trace at the same time. They left clues here and there, little signs and footprints (like the one Jim had stumbled across when he’d come up with Sylon’s escape plan), but nothing permanent. It was effective and elegant at the same time.

“Our Vulcans came up with it,” McCoy said. “They use encryptions based on Vulcan programming languages… seems that they’re almost impossible for your standard decrypting app to detect, much less decipher.”

“The Vulcans who assist you… they are free.” Spock didn’t phrase it like a question, more like a challenge.

“Yes,” McCoy said. “They’re in hiding. We have contacts who are still in captivity, and stay where they are because they can help more people that way.”

“Hiding where?” Jim wanted to know.

“That’s not for you to know. There are many things even I don’t know, and believe me, it’s better that way.”

“And…” Jim remembered what Sylon had said. “Is it true that you’ve got ships? Can you take people off-planet?”

McCoy gave him a long look. “Is that what you want? To leave Earth?”

Jim had never really given it much thought – had never thought that it would be an option for a run-down juvenile offender from Nowhere, Iowa. But to hear it spoken out loud…

“Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow, if I could.”

“I would, too.” Spock said it quietly. “I would leave, if I could.” He paused. “You are putting yourself at great risk, sir.”

“Yes,” McCoy said bluntly. “But that’s how the system works. You find someone who can be trusted, you tell them just enough so that they can use it to their advantage. If it turns out that they’re not trustworthy after all, they don’t know enough to do serious damage. If you went to your uncle right now and told him all I told you, there’s not much that would happen except me joinin’ you in prison.”

“What if I wanted to join up?” Jim asked. “How does that work?”

“There’s no membership card or secret hand signal, kid. I only know a handful of our people myself. I’m tellin’ you so you know where to turn to if need be, not to recruit you for the cause or anything. You two’d do best to lay low and try to keep safe and out of trouble.”

Jim crossed his arms. “I’ve never been out of trouble in my life.”

McCoy smiled dryly. “That, I can believe.”

“You mentioned there are Vulcans in captivity who assist your cause,” Spock said. “May I ask what they do?”

McCoy raised an eyebrow at him. “I can see you two are cut of the same cloth. Spock, I’m not gonna ask two kids to take that kind of risk. I want you to be safe, and if you really need help someday, you know where to turn to. That’s all.”

“‘Safe’ has variable definitions,” Spock said quietly. “Would you call our current situation safe, Dr. McCoy?”

The use of McCoy’s full name and title gave a strange force to the question, as if Spock was challenging this human adult to engage in an intellectual battle of wits with him. It was something the cowed alien kid who had first arrived at their farm wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. Now, Spock looked somewhat startled by his own boldness, but he met McCoy’s eyes without backing down.

McCoy sighed. “Son, I don’t think anyone should have to live like this, much less grow up like this. It’s dangerous out there, though. You don’t know what can happen to a kid like you.”

Spock kept looking at him. “Do I not?”

McCoy met his eyes. Some kind of silent exchange seemed to take place between them, unspoken words that caused Spock’s jawline to harden and McCoy’s eyes to fill with sadness.

“Yeah,” McCoy said slowly. “I guess you do know.”

Spock opened his mouth, but he never voiced whatever he had been about to say. The door had opened and Frank was standing there in the doorframe, holding his beer and looking mildly pissed off.

“What’s taking so long, doc? There something you can do for him or not?”

McCoy didn’t mention Frank’s earlier dismissal of his help, switching to a professional and detached demeanor in an instant. “I’ve cleaned the wounds and given him an antibiotic. If he’s allowed to rest, he should be a lot better soon.”

Jim expected a rant on how Spock wasn’t supposed to ‘lounge about’, but it didn’t come. Frank actually looked a little sheepish.

“Yeah, I guess he’d better take it easy for a day or two.”

McCoy cleaned his hands with a disinfectant wipe and got up. “Good. You might want to feed him a little more, too. He’s a growing kid, and much too thin as it is. If it doesn’t get better, it’ll lead to osteoporosis sooner or later. Brittle bones,” he added when it was obvious that Frank didn’t understand.

“Oh. Well, he doesn’t always eat his food. Don’t know why, though.”

“Because you put meat in it,” Jim said. “I told you.”

McCoy ignored the angry look Frank shot in Jim’s direction. “Vulcans can’t digest animal protein the way we humans can. It gives them all kinds of nasty stomach bugs. I’d strongly recommend keeping Spock’s food free of meat.”

Jim noticed the look Spock gave McCoy, and the twitch of an eyebrow that betrayed surprise. He knew for a fact that McCoy was telling a lie – Vulcans could digest meat just fine, it was just that they refused to consume it out of ethical considerations. Someone like Frank, of course, would scoff at the idea.

Frank seemed to have caught on that McCoy’s visit had been _pro bono_ , and as always, the prospect of saving expenses lifted his mood considerably. “Well then, doc. I guess Jim had the right idea after all, calling you. Say thank you, Spock.”

“Thank you for your assistance, sir,” Spock said obediently. Nothing in his tone or bearing gave it away, but Jim knew that he wasn’t just thanking McCoy for treating his wounds.

McCoy met the Vulcan boy’s eyes, then Jim’s, his left eyebrow raised in a characteristic manner. “Stay out of trouble, you two,” he said. “Remember what I told you.”

“Will do,” Jim said.

He watched McCoy leave, listened to Frank’s attempts at small talk and then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Somehow, despite the short time they had spent together, he doubted that they had seen the last of Leonard H. McCoy.

###

Frank kept his word, much to Jim’s surprise, and let Spock rest for two days. “A Vulcan holiday”, he called it, and laughed as if he had made a great joke.

Spock did little but sleep for forty-eight hours. Jim took care of mealtimes and other chores, and every once in a while looked in on the Vulcan boy. Spock was completely out of it, and didn’t even stir when Jim tugged on the blankets to see if he was still breathing.

On the morning of the third day, Frank opened Spock’s door with a curt “get up, now”, and Spock did, crawling out of his blanket nest and slipping on his clothes. He looked disheveled, but better than he had in almost a week, ever since the day Jim had dragged him half-conscious into the house. His pallor had improved, and his movements were swift and sure as he began to prepare Frank’s morning coffee.

“I want the AirVan washed,” Frank said, reaching for the cup Spock was handing him. “Vacuum the inside, too, it looks a mess.”

“Yes sir.”

“There’s a bunch of old crates outside that need to go into the garbage disposal. Use the axe to cut them up first, or they’ll clog the chute. Disposal needs to be cleaned, too.”

“Yes sir.”

Frank continued to rattle off chores for Spock to do, and if they were particularly hard or unpleasant ones, neither he nor Spock acknowledged it. Jim knew Frank had felt humiliated after McCoy’s visit, when the doctor had thrown his own shortsightedness and ignorance into his face. By his uncle’s logic, Spock was the obvious person to suffer for it.

“Here,” Frank said, tossing a banana and a piece of toast onto the table. “Eat that before you go outside. I don’t want you skipping any more meals, you hear me, boy?”

“Yes sir,” Spock said quietly, reaching for the food. He didn’t mention that he had only ‘skipped’ meals to which Frank had added meat, and Jim knew better than to point it out. Frank’s face was hard today, the lines next to his mouth more pronounced than usual; signs Jim knew how to read better than anyone. An expression like that usually meant that the brandy would be coming out after lunch, at the latest.

A sound from the hallway made him jump. At first he didn’t even recognize it – a rattle as if someone had banged two pieces of metal together. Then he realized what it was, and his stomach sank a little. Someone had pushed something through the old-fashioned mail slot on their front door. A paper letter. Printed documents were a rarity at this day and age, and they never meant anything good… or at least in Jim’s case they didn’t.

Frank didn’t even look up from his padd. “Spock,” he ordered, and the Vulcan boy silently slipped out to get whatever had been delivered to their door.

Spock came back in, handing Frank a white rectangular envelope, which his uncle proceeded to cut open with his breakfast knife. He scanned the sheet of paper briefly, then threw it down in front of Jim.

“Your court hearing. Tomorrow.”

Jim picked up the letter. It was short, only a few lines informing him when to attend and that a court-appointed defense attorney would be representing him, since his uncle had chosen not to hire legal representation (this didn’t surprise Jim).

“So,” Frank said. “Reality starting to sink in, eh?”

Jim gave no answer. It was strange, that the prospect of Juvi didn’t scare him more… strange, that his first thought had been of Spock, and how he hated the idea of not seeing him, even if it was only a few weeks.

Strange, that this was really the only thing he was afraid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think!


	13. Chapter 13

He wouldn’t be going to jail.

Sitting in Frank’s van, watching the landscape outside glide by, Jim idly wondered whether he felt as relieved as he should. Going to Juvi had seemed so inevitable, ever since Frank had discovered Sylon trying to sneak off the farm, that Jim hadn’t really considered any alternatives. Everyone had always said he was going to end up there – his teachers, the local cops, Frank of course… everyone but Spock, who didn’t really share his opinion on Jim’s career as a juvenile repeat offender.

And now he wasn’t going, and it left him unsure how to feel.

The judge, a youngish woman who seemed new to the job, had ripped him a new one – what was he doing with his life, did he think that responsibility to society was only for others, not for him. Jim had sat there silently, nodding in all the right places, listening as his attorney had attempted to explain how Jim’s living situation might have led to his ‘wrong choices’. “ _Mr. Henke is solely responsible for the family’s income, and it stands to reason that Jim spends a lot of time on his own_.” As if Spock was no more company than the plants in the living room. Jim had said nothing, though. He wasn’t _that_ stupid.

And then the judge had read her verdict, followed by a long-winded talk on how this was Jim’s last chance and his final opportunity to prove that he could be a productive member of society. Every adult in the room had nodded sagely to that, and Jim had been too floored to say anything, really. Which was probably good.

Frank had looked somewhat disappointed as they left the courtroom. “Don’t see why they’re wasting that kind of money on you,” he’d muttered on the way to the car. “ _Rehabilitation program_. It’s not like you’re sick. You’re just an idiot, that’s all.”

“They’d be wasting even more money by sending me to Juvi,” Jim had said. “It’s an unpaid work program, after all.”

“Oh, now you wanna be paid,” Frank had sneered, and Jim didn’t point out that he had never said that. He was too preoccupied by what the judge had decided would be a ‘beneficial experience’ to him.

_“I don’t believe you’re a bad kid. I know you’re not a stupid kid – quite the opposite, if your grades are anything to go by. You could be going places if all that energy is channelled in the right direction.”_

Jim knew that Frank resented this more than anything – him getting out of jail because of his good grades, of all things. Frank had been a mediocre student himself, and firmly believed that dropping out of school to start ‘real life’ was the only education that made any sense.

“At least you’re going to some place where there’s actual work to be done,” Frank said, returning Jim’s attention to the present. “Not some cozy old folks’ home to hand out cookies at tea time. What with the justice system being as it is, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

Jim said nothing; he never did when Frank got started on the ‘bleeding-heart system’. It wouldn’t change anything about the inevitable rant, except for making it longer.

He blocked out whatever his uncle was saying, watching the wintery fields outside slip by and trying to think of nothing… least of all where he would be spending the next six weeks of his life.

###

Much later, when Frank had disappeared into his room after a mostly-silent dinner, Jim went to find Spock. The Vulcan boy was upstairs, sorting through Sam’s old things and packing them neatly into boxes. Frank had made noises about wanting to turn Sam’s old room into a ‘den’ – which, Jim guessed, meant another place for him to watch the holo and drink. For Spock, it meant another list of chores and dragging random stuff through the house.

When Jim came in, Spock was kneeling between stacks of clothes and books, his shaggy black bangs hanging into his eyes. Frank had told him to cut his hair a few days ago, but Spock seemed to be ignoring the order, and Jim was glad that he did. He kind of liked the way Spock’s hair curled at the back of his neck.

“Hey.” Jim made his way through the mess on the floor and plopped down in between, making one of Spock’s neat stacks topple over. “Sorry.”

“It is of no consequence.” Spock stared at him, and Jim read the question on his face as if Spock had said it out loud.

“So yeah,” he said, suddenly feeling embarrassed for some reason. “Looks like I’m not going to Juvi, after all.”

“That is good news,” Spock said. To anyone else, he would have sounded indifferent, but Jim saw the relief in his eyes.

“Depends on how you look at it.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I do not understand.”

“They’re making me to do a rehab program. Community service.”

“In a welfare institution?”

“In a vet clinic.”

Spock carefully placed the stack of books he was holding into one of the boxes. “I… I see.”

Jim bit his lip. He’d come here to complain, to tell Spock that he’d rather be going to Juvi, but the words died in his mouth when he saw the expression on Spock’s face. That rigid mask meant that Spock was trying his best to hide the turmoil of emotions inside him. And he was doing a good job, his face appeared completely blank… but Jim no longer relied on his Spock’s expressions to know what the other boy was thinking and feeling. He hadn’t for quite a while, though neither of them acknowledged it out loud.

“I hate it,” Jim said quietly. “Almost as much as I hate not seeing you for six weeks.”

At that, Spock looked at him. There was something in his eyes Jim couldn’t quite pinpoint. “I do not enjoy the prospect, either.”

“Just go and hide in the barn when Frank starts drinking,” Jim said. “He won’t know where you are, he never goes there, and he’ll have forgotten all about it the next morning-”

“Jim.”

“Yeah?”

“It is not that. I regret that you have to leave because I will… miss your company.”

“Oh.” Jim felt himself blushing. “Oh. Um. Me… me too.”

Spock held his eyes, and then, slowly, raised his right hand, his index and middle fingers extended.

Jim frowned. “What…”

But then he – knew, although he couldn’t have said how. The significance of Spock’s gesture was there, in his mind, and there wasn’t a shred of doubt in him how to respond. Raising his own fingers, he gently, carefully brought them up to Spock’s. In the moment they touched, there was that feeling again, only a lot more intense – as if their touch had triggered some kind of discharge, a sensation that sparked Jim’s nerve endings and pooled in his belly like a warm drink.

Slowly, he ran his fingertips down to Spock’s palm, stroking it experimentally. The Vulcan boy gasped quietly and closed his eyes. That warm feeling began to spread lower, and Jim blushed again, hoping that Spock wouldn’t notice what was happening to him.

He didn’t stop, though.

They slid their fingers across each other’s palms and wrists, stroking and rubbing, trying out new ways of making each other breathe even harder.

“This… is how Vulcans make out,” Jim whispered, drawing his fingers in a circle on Spock’s palm. The Vulcan boy shuddered.

“Yes…”

“Weird...” His fingers still on Spock’s hand, he began to lean forward. The Vulcan boy watched him, his dark eyes wide, but he didn’t draw back. Spock’s lips felt warm and dry under Jim’s own.

“This is how humans make out.”

“I know,” Spock said softly, and there was an undertone to his voice that Jim couldn’t interpret. “I prefer the Vulcan way.”

Jim would have liked to kiss him again, but sensed that Spock didn’t… _knew_ it, in fact, just as he had known how to respond to two raised fingers. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Jim had made out with girls before – two, to be precise, one at Andy’s fifteenth birthday and another he’d met at the mall. He’d touched their breasts, had even put two of his fingers into Shannon while she rubbed his dick (which had kind of hurt, at first).

Being with Spock was an entirely new world. Just their hands and fingers, sliding and entwining, seemed more intimate than Mia’s tongue in his mouth or his hands in Shannon’s panties. Spock’s touch reached him in places no one had stirred before, secret places deep in his mind, and there was more to it than just lust and the excitement of doing a forbidden thing. It was as if something had clicked into place, as if a missing part of himself had been returned to him. It was _right_.

And then, Spock parted their hands, spread his fingers and reached out. “May I?”

Jim knew what he was asking. It was the thing Vulcans could be killed for – would be killed for, if they were caught doing it to a human. The mind meld. Touching someone’s thoughts, taking away their control, their privacy, their everything. It was the ultimate evil, the reason why some religious people believed Vulcans to have come straight from hell.

“I will not hurt you,” Spock said. “ _Nash’veh’r sarafel-tor’ai_?” [Do you trust me?]

“ _K’du sarafel-tor’a_ ,” Jim said. [I trust you]

Spock’s fingertips touched his cheek, his jaw and a place right below his mouth. They felt warmer than a human’s would, and less soft (Spock’s hands spoke of a lifetime full of hard work). Their touch was very gentle, though.

_This is not so bad_ , Jim thought.

_It is not, no._

There was a moment of panic at hearing Spock ‘speak’ inside his mind, his thoughts – and then, warmth washed through him and calmed his fear. There was just Spock, and he was closer than he’d ever been, closer even than when they’d done the weird Vulcan finger-kissing.

Jim had never felt anything like it.

_My mind to yours_ , Spock said-thought. _That way, I will always be with you, even when we are parted._

_You won’t… go away? I’ll feel you even when you’re not there?_

_If you wish it. Parted from me but never parted… never and always touching and touched._

_That sounds like poetry._

_It is a vow Vulcans only give to their t’hy’la._

And Jim found he understood the meaning of the word, even though he had never heard it before.

T’hy’la. Friend, brother. Lover.

_I’ll never be alone again_ , he thought, and his own desperate longing was mirrored in another mind, alien and familiar at the same time.

This time, they said-thought the words together – _parted from me but never parted, never and always touching and touched_ – and something inside Jim changed. It had been changing before, subtly, slowly, and Jim knew that this was only the final step of the journey. It should have been scary – minds were not supposed to be changed, not by thin alien kids with shaggy hair on the floor of a messy bedroom.

It was not.

_T’hy’la_. Jim tried out the word, and found that he liked the sound.

_T’hy’la_ , Spock replied, and Jim felt him smile.

_Will I be able to ‘talk’ to you when I’m away?_ Jim asked.

_I believe so_ , Spock said-thought. _I… am new to this, as well. I have heard it takes practice to communicate over distances. And I am not the strongest of telepaths._

_No one can find out. They’ll…_ Even in his thoughts, Jim didn’t want to finish.

_Kill me_ , Spock said-thought. _Yes, I know. But…_

It was his turn to hesitate. _I find I do not want to be parted from you,_ he finished then.

_Me too_ , Jim thought back.

Those warm fingers left his face, and Jim found himself sitting between stacks of his brother’s clothes and books, grinning like an idiot.

On the outside, Spock wasn’t smiling, but Jim had felt his mind-smile, and could sense it even now as he looked at the Vulcan’s face. This time, it was he who held out two fingers, and Spock who brought up his hand to meet them.

_Six weeks_ , Jim thought. _It’s going to feel like forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some potentially disturbing images.

Program Participant: James T. Kirk, age 14

Daily Progress Report: Dec 12, 2245  (no less than 150 words per day)

_Not really sure what I’m supposed to put here, so I’ll just give you the facts, hoping that’s what you’re looking for. I arrived at the Camuti Veterinary Clinic for Non-human Sentients in San Francisco around 4 p.m. today, and was welcomed by one of the second-year residents, Dr. Christine Chapel. I’m going to be assisting her most of the time, she said. I also met Dr. Philip Boyce, who runs the place, and Dr. Geoffrey M’Benga, another second-year resident._

_Dr. Chapel showed me to my room (there are a few private rooms for doctors from out of town, and I’ve been given one of them). She told me to get settled in, so that’s what I’m doing. Weather’s nice and warm, which means fewer patients (that’s what Dr. Chapel said. Seems Vulcans don’t deal well with the winter fog.)_

_I didn’t meet any of the patients. That’s 160 words, counting this sentence, so I’ll leave it at that for today._

###

“Now, before we go in, what do we do?”

Jim tried not to roll his eyes. Chapel had gone through the same routine twice before, and he’d given the correct answer each time.

“Use hand sanitizer,” he said, injecting only a hint of sarcasm into his voice. All in all, Chapel had been nice… mostly.

“That’s right,” she said. If she’d noticed his tone, she ignored it. “Don’t forget. You’ll be going into Isolation, where we keep contagious or very sick patients, and back into Kennels a few times a day. One slip might be enough to transmit some nasty bug by the touch of your hand. Remember, we don’t really know all that much about Vulcan diseases.”

She put her thumb on the scanning pad next to the door marked ‘Kennels 1’, and it slid open. “We’ll program your finger print into the system later. Oh, and none of the patients’ owners can come back here.”

“Okay. Why not?”

“Hygiene protocol. And less trouble. Patients’ owners are always ten times more trouble than the patients.”

Not sure what to say to this, Jim took in the room they had just entered. Like most of the clinic, it was painted in pale shades of sanitary blue and green. To his right, there was a row of twelve cell-like cages, separated from each other and the rest of the room by wire-mesh. The material looked deceptively thin, but Jim recognized the characteristic metallic shine. Duranium, he thought. A human wouldn’t be able to bend one of those match-thin wires, let alone pry them apart.

But the cells, of course, hadn’t been built for human inmates. Inside each cage was a cot connected to a bio monitor on the cell door, a sink and a stainless-steel toilet. Some of the cots, Jim saw, were occupied.

“Here are our supply cabinets,” Chapel said, pointing to a wall of cupboards on the right. She began opening some of them. “Blankets, pillows, sheets. If you think that one of the patients is cold, give them an additional blanket or two. They won’t ask for one, so don’t wait for that, just give it to them. Bed pans are over here, cleaning stuff’s in there. Oh, and this is for the kids.”

She opened a cupboard at the bottom, revealing boxes filled with old toys and stuffed animals. “They tend to be very quiet as a rule, but sometimes the little ones will get bored or antsy, stuck in here all day. It’ll be your job to make sure they stay in bed and don’t bother the other patients. The toys help.” She smiled, closing the cabinet.

“Our hospital cases are supposed to shower once a day, or are washed in their kennel if they can’t get up. Showers are back here. You’ll take each of them there, make sure they get clean and take them back. Washing the bed-ridden ones will also be your job, once you know the drill.”

Jim had walked up to one of the cages – _kennels_ , he thought. On the cot inside lay a Vulcan man, about twenty-five or thirty, dressed in the blue-ish gown all patients at Camuti Clinic were given. His blanket had slipped to the floor. The man’s eyes were closed, though the fine lines around them suggested that he wasn’t resting peacefully.

Chapel appeared next to Jim. “He’s been here a week. Pneumonia, or at least the Vulcan version of it. Owners took him along on a yacht cruise, and some joker thought it would be funny to push him in. Damn idiots. It was touch and go the first few days.”

Jim looked at the man’s pale face. “What’s his name?”

Chapel checked the card on the door. “Vorik. Why?”

Jim shrugged. What he really wanted was to get out of this room, with its immaculate floor and wire meshing and silent inhabitants that wouldn’t ask for a blanket when they were cold. He didn’t know why he had asked the man’s name.

_Spock might have been in a place like this._

Chapel had moved on to the second-to-next kennel. “Hey, sweetie, how are you doing?”

There was a child curled up on the cot inside, maybe six or seven years old. Her black hair had been pulled back into an untidy braid, framing a thin, pale face and large dark eyes.

The girl gave no reply, staring through Chapel as if she wasn’t even there. Jim saw an IV line leading from her arm to a bag with saline solution.

“She’s been rescued from one of those farms,” Chapel said. “Horrible place. Investors buy young children and raise them until they’ll sell for double the price. She was kept in a room with ten other kids and only fed every other day. Then the company went broke and the hired keepers ran off, leaving the kids to starve. There were only twelve of them still alive when the police went in.”

Jim looked at the girl, at her empty eyes. “How many were there?”

“Fifty,” Chapel said quietly. “Some people have no heart.”

Jim said nothing.

_Spock might have been in a place like this._

“She hasn’t spoken or responded to anything, really,” Chapel added. “Maybe in a few days. I’ve seen it happen before. They’re incredibly tough that way.”

Jim read the name card on the door. _T’Vel._

“We gave her the name,” Chapel said when she noticed his look. “All she had was a number scribbled onto her back with permanent marker. It’s a strong name, and she’s a strong kid. Aren’t you, honey?”

T’Vel didn’t react. Chapel sighed. “Well, maybe tomorrow. Jim will be back to take care of you, bring you food. Maybe some soup?”

There was no response from the girl, although Jim thought he’d seen her jaw twitch ever so slightly when Chapel mentioned food.

There was only one occupied kennel left. The Vulcan man inside sat on his cot in a cross-legged position a human his age wouldn’t have been able to pull off; to Jim’s inexperienced eye, he looked to be about a hundred and fifty, if not more. His left arm was held in a sling close to his body.

“Hello, Soval,” Chapel said. “How’s the arm?”

“It is improving, madam,” Soval said, eyes downcast.

Jim took a closer look, and saw that Soval’s arm was encased in an old-fashioned plaster, the kind you saw in historical films.

“Soval’s owners opted for a conservative treatment,” Chapel said. “Vulcan self-healing often works wonders.”

And it costs less than bone regeneration, went unspoken.

“Soval’s staying overnight,” she continued. “He’ll be going home tomorrow if there are no complications.” She lowered her voice. “We offered it free of charge. Poor old guy needs a night to rest and recover, and he won’t be getting it at home, that’s for sure.”

Jim looked at Soval. The old Vulcan kept his eyes down, giving no indication that he had heard Chapel’s words.

“Now,” she said, turning away from the kennels. “I’ll show you how to prepare everything for feeding time. There’s a ready-made soup we give them, and-”

“Madam.” Soval had spoken quietly, but his eyes were no longer cast to the floor. There was an intensity about his gaze that surprised Jim.

Chapel seemed surprised, as well. “Soval?”

“The young one, T’Vel. She is… her body is healing, but her mind is in great distress.” Soval paused. “I can help her, madam. If you-”

“No.” Chapel cut him off, her tone harsher than anything Jim had heard from her so far. “No way.”

“Respectfully, madam,” Soval said, “she is in great pain. If I could touch her mind-”

“I said no. It’s illegal, Soval, and if your master heard you talking about such things, you’d be in big trouble.”

This time, Soval did not lower his eyes. “I would rather he beat me, madam, than watch a young one suffer so.”

“She is getting the help she needs,” Chapel said sharply. “That’s why she’s here. That’s why _you’re_ here. I suggest you concentrate on getting better and leave the medical decisions to us doctors.”

“What if he can help her?” The words were out before Jim could think. “Why not let him?”

Chapel’s hand closed around his arm. “Come on. _Come_.”

Jim didn’t really want to, but the doctor’s hand was firm on his elbow, steering him out of the kennel area and into a small backroom. The door slid shut behind them, and Jim caught a glance of stacked bowls, containers with food and a big microwave oven. Then Chapel started to talk, and Jim’s attention focused entirely on her. Her smile was gone, her cheeks flushed with anger.

“Listen to me very closely. This isn’t the first time one of them asked to do the mind-touching thing, and it won’t be the last. We do not allow it. Ever.”

“But-”

“No. It’s dangerous. Imagine one of them did it to you.”

Jim stared at her flushed face. Just talking about Vulcan telepathy seemed to frighten and anger her by equal degrees, in a way that left no room for rational discussion. “ _Imagine they did it to you.”_

_Imagine they did. Imagine it was the best thing that ever happened to me._

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Chapel said. “As long as we’re clear on that. I understand; sometimes it’s hard to forget that they’re not human, and you see a lot of things in here that… anyway. The point is that they’re _not_. They’re _not_ human. They may talk and even think independently, to a certain degree, but it’s all on the surface. Underneath, they’re ruled by instincts, like any animal. They’ll hide away and slip into a trance instead of seeking medical help, and they’ll go into heat like cats or dogs. Yes,” she added, misinterpreting Jim’s expression. “It happens to the adults every seven years or so. I’ve seen them mate in that state. It’s not pretty, and it’s not human. Not even close.”

Jim had heard these things before, of course. Vulcans turning into rabid sex beasts, attacking everything in their surroundings until they found a partner to mate with. Vulcans that had been locked up like this and literally tore themselves to pieces. Once, when Frank had been drunk, a lurid account of a Vulcan woman ‘in heat’ who had begged for more even after he and his friends had each taken their turn. (At that point, Jim had shoved his earplugs in and turned on _The Beast_ full blast, the closest thing to brain bleach he could think of).

“So,” Chapel said. “This is where we keep our food supplies.”

Jim listened as she showed him how to prepare the standard food for the patients (a bland soup with bits of fruit and vegetables on the side), nodding in all the right places. Chapel had gone back to her friendly demeanor of before, smiling and showing him where she kept boxes of oatmeal cookies she bought out of her own pocket (“they love those”). She told him that many people fed their Vulcans wrong (“just any old scraps from the kitchen”), which caused the digestive problems and anemia they saw in many of their patients. “It’s not right. It’s not like they need much, but it should be food that’s good for them.”

Jim nodded to that, as well. In the back of his mind, he listened for that… hum, for lack of a better word, which had been there ever since Spock had melded with him. There had been no exchanges so far, none of that thought-speaking they had done in Sam’s old bedroom, but there was a distinct sensation of something not-himself in his mind, something alien yet familiar.

_It’s the only thing to keep me sane in this place. Don’t go away._

_I will not_. The reply came so suddenly that Jim almost knocked one of the feeding bowls off the counter. _Never and always touching and touched_.

_Yeah, that. God, Spock, you don’t know how I miss you._

_And I, you._

Jim smiled, and noticed Chapel looking at him strangely. He bit his lip. Imagine if they did it to me, doctor. Imagine that.

###

That night, when everyone had left the clinic but for the night shift technicians and the patients, Jim slipped out of his room and went back down to the kennel area. His fingerprint had been programmed into the system by now, and the door slid open before him, revealing the rows of cages lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp at the other end of the room.

Soval sat up when Jim walked up to his cell. “Sir?”

“Shh.” Jim pressed one finger to the lock, and the wire-mesh door slid aside. “Come on.”

Soval asked no further questions. He got up, his fluid movements belying his age, and followed Jim down to the kennel where T’Vel lay motionless on her cot.

Jim opened the door. “Go on,” he said.

Soval went inside and knelt down next to the girl. “ _Pi’ko-kai_ ,” he said softly. “ _Nahp, hif-bi tu throks_.” [Little sister. Your thoughts, give them to me]

The girl did not respond. Very gently, as if touching a frightened deer, Soval extended his uninjured hand and rested his fingers on T’Vel’s face. His eyes closed, and his brows drew together as if he’d suddenly experienced a stab of pain.

They remained like this for a good ten minutes, the old man kneeling on the floor, his fingers touching the silent girl’s face. Then, quite suddenly, T’Vel whimpered and began to make the first sounds Jim had heard from her – quiet, grating gasps, as if trying and failing to catch her breath. Jim knew what it was. Spock had made those noises when Frank had whipped him. This was how Vulcans cried.

Soval withdrew his hand, but left two fingers resting on T’Vel’s forehead in a gesture that seemed almost benedictory. “ _Kah-if-rom_ ,” he whispered. “ _Kah-if-rom_.” [It is well]

He looked at Jim, and there were deep shadows under his eyes, as if he’d just aged another ten years. “The young ones around her,” he said. “She saw them die, one by one. She was the only one left. She consumed the flesh of the dead to stay alive.”

Jim said nothing. ‘I’m sorry’ was pathetic in the face of the girl’s pain and the old man’s grief.

“I soothed her mind,” Soval said. “A bandage, if you will, on a bleeding wound. It will take a long time to heal. But it is no longer fatal. You saved her life. I thank you.”

He touched his forehead and held out his hand, palm up.

Jim shook his head. “I didn’t… it was you who saved her.”

Soval gave him a long look. “You are _veh t’etek_ [one of us],” he said. “It shall not be forgotten.”

Jim bowed slightly. He wasn’t sure how he knew that this was how to respond to an Elder who honored you – he just did.

Soval smiled faintly. “Your bondmate taught you well, _pi’sa-kai_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some potentially disturbing and graphic images.

The man was fifty-ish, and well-off, judging by his expensive suit and the state-of-the-art padd he kept checking every other minute.

The girl was fifteen – Spock’s age – and sat on the  examining bed with her head bowed. Her straight black hair fell on either side of her face, hiding it almost completely.

“Well?” the man said.

“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Chapel replied, her voice tight and controlled. “Fourteen weeks along.”

The man exhaled sharply, looking at the girl who had neither moved nor spoken. “You sure?”

“Look for yourself,” Chapel gestured at the bio-monitor. “That’s the fetus. The blip you see here is the heart beat. One healthy human-Vulcan baby.”

Jim saw the man’s cheek twitch at those last words. “Okay then. Do you have a free slot for the procedure today, or do you want me to bring her back tomorrow?”

“We can fit her in today,” Chapel said shortly. “You can pick her up tonight at 7.”

“Okay then,” the man said again. “I’ll be off. Be good for the doctor, T’Lin.”

T’Lin gave no answer.

###

“Can you help him?”

Mr. Lewis wiped his cheeks with a crumpled paper towel. His eyes were bloodshot from crying.

“I mean… whatever it takes, I’ll pay… Seren is…”

His voice broke, and he began to sob, covering his mouth to muffle the sounds. Seren slid off the examination bed, went over to him and laid a hesitant hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“Sir… do not grieve so. Please.”

At that, Mr. Lewis sobbed loudly, threw his arms around the young Vulcan and began to cry into Seren’s chest. The Vulcan, who was stoutly built and almost two meters tall, towered over him like a father over a child. While Mr. Lewis cried, Seren seemed unsure what to do with his hands, and finally settled them uncomfortably on the human’s shaking back.

Jim knew that to Vulcans, a hug felt like a slap with a wet towel – a sharp smack of feelings not their own.

“Mr. Lewis,” M’Benga said, gently taking the man’s arm. “Mr. Lewis, please. Let’s talk about your options.”

Mr. Lewis allowed himself to be guided to a chair in front of the doctor’s desk.

“Seren’s blood tests are back,” M’Benga said. “His R-cell count has risen significantly. It’s like we suspected. I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis.”

Lewis sobbed once. “You mean… leukemia?”

“Its Vulcan equivalent, yes.”

“Is there something we can do? Leukemia is easily treated, isn’t it?”

“In humans, yes. With Vulcans… there is a new treatment option involving synthesized stem cells, but…”

“I’ll pay whatever it takes!” Lewis’ voice nearly broke. “I’ve- I’ve got savings-”

“Mr. Lewis,” M’Benga said gently. “The costs would amount to about 80 000 credits.”

Lewis did not stay long after that. Seren followed the sobbing man outside, a look of quiet concern on his face. Jim saw him hand a tissue to Lewis, saw the human wipe his face and rest his forehead against the Vulcan’s shoulder. Seren did not move away.

“What’ll happen to him?” Jim asked when they were gone.

M’Benga sighed. “He has about five months left, give or take a few weeks. I hope Lewis comes back to do the right thing. R-cell leukemia isn’t a pretty way for them to go.”

Five days later, Mr. Lewis’ sister came by to drop Seren off. “He couldn’t do it himself,” she said, shaking her head. “That boy was like a son to him.”

Later, after the hypo, after covering Seren’s lifeless body with a plastic sheet, after Jim had been sick in the staff room toilet, Chapel came to find him. She didn’t comment, just took him outside and offered him one of her cigarettes, which he took.

She said nothing, and he was glad she didn’t. He listened for Spock’s mind-sound in his head, that faint hum that had turned into a lifeline for him. It was there, though strangely muted, as if Spock was blocking him out in some way. This had happened a few times now, and Jim hated it; it made him feel panicky, almost as if something was slowly cutting off his airways, leaving him unable to breathe properly. Spock always came back, though, and Jim had to believe that he always would.

_Never and always touching and touched._

It wasn’t really a choice anymore.

###

The Vulcan woman didn’t scream. She didn’t even cry out, just grunted quietly now and then, her face flushed dark green, wisps of black hair clinging to her sweaty cheeks. Her feet were pushing against the stirrups, hard enough so that they groaned dangerously under her strength.

“Almost there, T’Mai,” Chapel said. “She’s crowning.”

From his vantage point at the back, Jim saw a wet cap of dark hair appear between T’Mai’s legs.

“Push, now,” Chapel said, and T’Mai did. The baby’s head emerged soon after, green, wrinkled and covered in gunk.

“Get me the towels, Jim,” Chapel ordered. T’Mai uttered another small grunt, and the baby slid out, caught by Chapel’s expert hands. It didn’t move. Jim stared. It looked dead.

“Towels,” Chapel repeated, a hint of impatience in her voice. Jim turned around and opened the cabinet where the towels were kept. He didn’t know how many would be needed, and took four of them for good measure, careful to keep his hands steady as he carried them over to the birthing bed.

Chapel grabbed the first towel from the stack without looking at him, and began rubbing down the baby, who still hadn’t stirred. Her touch wasn’t exactly gentle, but it seemed to do the job – the baby’s arms began to move feebly, and the tiny mouth opened, uttering a faint mewling sound in protest of the rough treatment.

“There we go.” Chapel took another towel and wrapped it matter-of-factly around the newborn, then proceeded to clamp and cut the umbilical cord. Jim watched, feeling faintly sick, as she gathered up the bleeding end of the cord and stuffed it back into T’Mai’s vagina. Immediately, the Vulcan clamped her legs shut to keep it from sliding out again.

“Doesn’t that-”

“Human women expel the placenta.” Chapel seemed to have expected the question. “Vulcan females don’t. It breaks down and helps replenish the blood the mother has lost during the birth. It’s an efficient way of retaining fluids, which makes sense on a desert planet.”

“Madam…” T’Mai spoke for the first time in three hours, ever since she’d been placed in the birthing chair by the tech on duty. She had not uttered a word during the birth itself.

Chapel turned to look at her. “T’Mai?”

“My daughter… may I see her?”

Sighing, Chapel picked up the mewling bundle. “T’Mai, you know-”

“I beg of you, madam. Let me see her.”

Shaking her head, Chapel placed the baby in her mother’s arms. T’Mai looked down at the green, wrinkled face, stroking the tiny forehead with two gentle fingers. “ _Pi’veh_ ,” she whispered. “ _Nashaya_.” [Small one. I greet you.]

Chapel acted as if she hadn’t heard, busying herself with the bloody towels. “Let’s get some water ready to bathe her. She’ll be picked up soon.”

Jim looked back at T’Mai, who was quietly speaking to her daughter, ignoring everything else. This was her tenth birth, according to the records, the tenth baby to be taken away by someone who had bought the unborn still in the womb. There would be a recovery break of two months, and after that, the next pregnancy. The ‘stud’, as her owner had phrased it, had already been selected.

“Come now,” Chapel said, not unkindly. “You know the drill. Give her to Jim, he’ll give her a bath and make sure she’s nice and cozy.”

She motioned for him to come closer, but he stayed where he was.

Chapel sighed. “T’Mai, give her to me now.”

T’Mai raised her head. Her eyes were dry, but there was something about her expression that made Chapel take an involuntary step back.

“ _Fam’nemtor’lai ko-fu t’nashveh, kohmin’_.” Her voice was no longer soft, but a snarl. “ _Fam’kal-tor-kai_.” [You will not take my daughter, human. I will not allow it.]

“T’Mai.” Chapel switched to a soft, quiet tone, as if trying to placate an angry animal. “Not this again, okay? It’s not good for you or your little one. You don’t want to hurt her, do you?”

T’Mai was clutching the baby to her chest. “You will not take her.”

“Be reasonable now,” Chapel continued. “You can’t keep her, you know that. She is not yours.”

“ _Bath’pa’du_!” T’Mai spat. “ _Bath’pa’kho’stri_!” [A curse on you! A curse on your race!]

Suddenly her eyes rolled up, and she slumped back into the chair, her arms going lax. Chapel quickly grabbed the baby before it could drop to the floor. A protesting cry came from inside the towel.

 “She’s fine,” Chapel said before Jim could ask. “I knew this was coming, that’s why I gave her a knock-out hypo earlier.”

He stared at her, not trusting himself to speak.

“And you can stop looking at me like I’m Dr. Mengele. Do you think I’m doing this for fun?” There was an angry flush on her cheeks now. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it is what it is. All I can do is try and make things easier on all of us. Here,” she pushed the baby into his arms. “One pedigreed Vulcan pup, 5000 credits. I’m just the one who delivers it. Now get that bath ready like I told you.”

He stood there, watching her as she left. The baby in his arms squawked, and he looked down to find a pair of dark brown eyes staring at him.

Slowly, not sure why he did it, he held out a finger and the baby grasped it, holding it tight. Jim felt the brush of a small mind against his own, curious and unafraid.

“ _Ni’droi’ik nar-tor_ ,” [I am sorry] he whispered, and the mind withdrew, without having found what it was looking for. The dark eyes seemed confused now, and Jim, unable to look at them any longer, turned his head away.

“ _Ni’droi’ik nar-tor.”_

The baby began to cry.

###

Program Participant: James T. Kirk, age 14

Final Report: Jan 16, 2246

_First, I would like to thank Dres Chapel, Boyce and M’Benga at the Camuti Clinic for their time and patience in letting me assist them._

_The past six weeks have given me an insight not only into the hard job a veterinarian does, but into the values and ethics that are the foundation of our society. For that, I am grateful, and I hope this experience will help me make the right decisions in my own life. I realize now that I’ve been unaware of many things happening in the world around me, and have maybe concentrated too much on my own concerns and interests. I’m determined to change this, and this program has helped me tremendously in making me understand what needs to be changed._

_I would like to thank the board for this opportunity, and, to use a phrase I picked up from our alien guests: ‘Live long and prosper.’_

_\--J.T.K._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think!


	16. Chapter 16

Frank didn’t come to pick him up from the shuttleport in Cedar Rapids, but then, Jim had not really expected him to. He found his connection to Riverside easily enough, riding a crowded public transit that carried a number of tired-looking commuters returning home from their city jobs.

Global warming being what it was (namely, an issue largely ignored by the last five United Earth administrations), Iowan winters were no longer as harsh as they had been, but it did snow, still. Jim idly watched the shuttle’s shadow on the ground as it glided across the white plains. Now and then, it lowered its altitude to ground-level and the automatic doors opened to allow passengers to get off and others to board. They let in gusts of icy wind, which made him shiver. His light jacket, perfect for mild West Coast temperatures, didn’t do him much good here. And he’d still have to walk from the shuttle stop to the house.

When Jim got off, his backpack slung across his shoulder, the wind hit him like a stinging slap. The snow under his feet wasn’t deep – five centimeters, perhaps – but the open fields did nothing to protect the road from the elements. At least he’d remembered to wear his good sneakers. He broke into a light jog, his head down to keep the worst of the wind at bay. This was how Sam and he had often returned from school – running, their faces hurting, trying to push each other into a snow drift. Frank had only seen fit to pick them up if the snow was actually blocking the road, but back then, Jim hadn’t cared.

As he approached the house, he could see Frank’s AirVan parked next to a snowed-in vegetable patch. So his uncle was home. Jim felt a sting of disappointment; he’d hoped that Frank would be gone, that he’d have at least an hour or two alone with Spock. He’d been counting the days, and lately, the hours, up to this moment, and he hated the idea of Frank being around to spoil it.

Spock. He wouldn’t grab the Vulcan boy and hug the life out of him, because he knew that Spock would hate it. But he wanted to. The thought was all that had kept him from going insane these last few weeks.

And then Spock was there, next to the AirVan, a bucket at his feet and a soapy cloth in his hand. Jim didn’t hug him, but he did drop his backpack into the snow and grab Spock’s hand. And Spock was smiling. Jim had seen him smile once or twice before, but never like this – never this openly and unrestrained.

“Hey,” Jim said. “I’m back.”

Spock’s smile was still there. “So I see.”

“Yeah,” Jim said stupidly.

“I am pleased.”

“Yeah, me too.” Spock’s hand in his felt icy, and Jim noticed only now that the Vulcan boy wasn’t wearing gloves. Or, indeed, a scarf or a hat. He was dressed in an ugly old anorak Jim recognized as one of Mom’s old gardening jackets, and which didn’t seem warm enough to keep away the biting wind. His face was flushed with cold, the tips of his nose and ears dark green.

“What – what happened to your eye?”

Spock turned away at that, lowering his head so that his shaggy bangs fell into his face. They didn’t quite manage to hide the bruise, though.

“It is of no consequence.”

“That asshole.”

“As I said, it is of no consequence.” Spock flinched away when Jim carefully reached for his face. “Please, do not-”

“Sorry.” Jim lowered his hand, biting his lip. He’d seen all sorts of bruises on Vulcan faces during the last six weeks, had even learned how to treat them with antiseptic gel and cooling salve, but none of it had prepared him for the rage he felt at seeing the fat swollen lump that was Spock’s left eye. “Sorry.”

“Do not be.” Spock brushed two fingers against the back of his hand. “You are back. It is all that matters.”

Jim took Spock’s hand in both of his. The slim fingers felt like icicles against his skin. “Come inside with me. It’s freezing out here.”

Spock glanced back at the house. “Your uncle ordered me to wash the AirVan. He made it clear not to return until it was clean inside and out.”

“He can go fuck himself.” Jim grabbed his backpack and hoisted it over one shoulder. “He can come out and wash the damn thing himself if he wants it cleaned so badly.”

Spock made no move to follow him. “Jim, he is… inebriated, or so he was when he sent me outside. I do not wish to provoke him.”

Jim opened his mouth to protest, but stopped at the look on Spock’s face. Spock had always been wary around Frank, flinching away from his touch and watching him as if he were an aggressive dog set off by the slightest provocation. This was different, though. Spock looked _afraid_.

Jim thought about this for a moment, then let his backpack slide back down to the ground. “Here,” he said, reaching for the soapy cloth in Spock’s hand. “I’ll finish the outside, you get started on the inside.”

They worked in silence, washing mud and road dirt off the van’s sides, polishing its dusty windows and vacuuming the seats. Jim frowned at the huge plastic bag filled with beer cans Spock carried to the waste recycler. The floor in front of the passenger seat was sticky and smelled like a dead rat, a sure sign that the cans had been accumulating there for weeks. Jim tossed out the floor mat, deeming it a lost case. The foul smell wasn’t quite as pungent, after that.

“When did it get so bad?” Jim asked softly, not looking at Spock as he upended the bucket. Muddy water splashed onto the lawn, forming lazy rivulets of dirt in the snow.

Spock was silent for a moment. “Christmas,” he said then. “He drank until he lost consciousness. At some point I believed he had… suffocated on his own vomit, but he resumed breathing after I shook him.”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Christmas is the worst. Always has been, since Erica broke up with him.”

“Erica?”

“Girlfriend that he had, long time ago. Let’s go inside.”

Snowflakes were beginning to drift down from the darkening sky, settling on the freshly cleaned van. Jim doubted Frank would even remember ordering Spock to wash it.

He followed Spock up the porch stairs and into the kitchen. From the living room, he could see the faint glow from the holovision, and the outlines of a motionless figure sprawled in the armchair. Frank seemed to have fallen asleep.

Jim plunked his backpack onto one of the chairs. “Home sweet home.”

“Indeed.” Spock had neatly hung his anorak onto a hook on the wall, and was standing at sink, rinsing out the bucket and cloth. “I take it you were not reluctant to leave the clinic.”

Jim sat down heavily at the table. “It was… that place was hell, Spock.”

Spock said nothing.

“They take babies away from their mothers and sell them to traders. And there was this really old Vulcan guy who’d been with a family forever… he was getting kind of confused, forgetting names and stuff, and they just… they said he was dangerous to have around, but he wasn’t, he was just _old_. Anyone could see it. And they told the doctor to put him to sleep so he wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

Jim remembered the old man’s bewildered face, his puzzled questions when they were going to let him go, he needed to finish folding the laundry. He’d still been asking when M’Benga came up to him with the hypospray.

“I had no idea that they do that. Put people to sleep just because they’re old or sick.”

“According to your laws, Vulcans are not ‘people’,” Spock said softly. Jim looked at him. He didn’t sound bitter, was simply stating a fact he’d been living with all his life.

“They’re not my laws.”

Spock gave him a long look, but made no comment. “Here,” he said, setting down a mug he’d been holding. “Peppermint tea. I find it helps with the cold.”

Jim took it gratefully. “Thanks.”

The tea was boiling hot, and Jim held it in both hands, enjoying the warmth and the fresh scent that was rising from the mug. Spock had taken a seat next to him and was sipping his own tea, apparently unfazed by the temperature.

Jim sensed that Spock did not want to discuss the clinic, and maybe that wasn’t so surprising; after all, the Vulcan boy had gone through traumatic experiences of his own at a place just like it. Maybe that was why he’d been blocking Jim out.

They sipped their tea in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. For some reason, Jim’s eyes were drawn to Spock’s hands. Curled around the mug, they looked even longer and slimmer than they actually were, with that pale green tint characteristic of Vulcan skin and short, ragged nails. He’d missed those hands. Not that he’d admit it, but he’d thought of those hands almost every night in bed… their not-human warmth, their touch on his own, cooler skin.

_Jim._

Along with the thought that was not his own, one of the hands unfurled from the cup and two fingers were held out to him.

Jim looked up and found Spock’s eyes on him, his face unsmiling.

_I missed you too._

###

The next morning, Jim woke with a start. For a moment, he was confused by his surroundings, his sleepy brain expecting the small, nondescript guest room he’d been staying in at the clinic.

Then, with a wash of relief, he remembered that he was home. His own room, his own mess on the floor, his clothes and padds strewn all over the place. Frank’s muffled voice shouting downstairs. Home. Such as it was.

Getting up, Jim grabbed the pair of jeans he’d worn yesterday and slipped them on, then dug through his wardrobe for a warm sweater (Frank didn’t like it when he turned up the thermostat too high). From his window, he could see a layer of fresh snow covering the lawn and fields outside. It was Sunday, he remembered. There’d been no communication from his school so far, but then, they’d probably contact Frank, not him. He’d have to go back at some point, now that he was _rehabilitated_. Unless they’d kicked him out for good, and hadn’t bothered telling him. Either way, Jim certainly didn’t plan on bringing up the subject with his uncle.

Walking downstairs, Jim heard a crash from the kitchen, the sound of glass breaking, and Frank’s angry voice.

“… if you know what’s good for you. Now clean that up, you little _shit_.”

The last word was spit out with a venom that startled Jim, even coming from Frank. Stepping through to the kitchen, he was met with the sight of Spock kneeling on the floor, sweeping up the shards of what looked like a drinking glass. Frank was standing over him, red-faced and obviously not quite sober, despite the fact that it was only half past nine.

“I’ve had it with your mouth, you hear me? Giving me attitude, who do you think you are! I ought to whip your ass and teach you a lesson!”

As if to emphasize his words, Frank grabbed a handful of Spock’s hair and shook him.

“Let him go!”

Frank did let go at Jim’s shout, swaying slightly as he turned around. For a moment, the anger drained out of his face to be replaced with confusion, and Jim realized that his uncle had plain forgotten about him.

“When did _you_ get back?” Frank asked blearily.

“Last night.” Jim saw Spock’s hands trembling ever so slightly as he carried the dustpan over to the garbage. The Vulcan boy didn’t look at him. “You were sleeping.”

“Yeah.” Frank lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, and Jim noticed then just how awful he looked. Face pale and bloated, stubbly from at least five days without shaving, his eyes red-rimmed. He had gained weight, too, a sure sign that the downwards spiral had started. Jim hadn’t seen him look this bad since Erica had walked out six years ago.

Back then, Mom had still been around to yell back when he started shouting, throw out the booze, make sure he ate something besides fast food and hold him when he sobbed on the couch like a baby.

Except for the yelling, Jim wasn’t going to do any of those things.

“Leave Spock alone,” he said. “It’s not his fault you’re hung over.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Frank opened the stasis unit and grabbed a beer from one of the shelves. "Fuck you both.”

With that, he left the kitchen, his gait not quite steady as he made his way to the living room.

Jim looked at Spock. “You okay?”

Spock shrugged, a surprisingly human gesture. “There is a likelihood of 75 % that he will forget about his threat to ‘whip my ass’. So yes, I suppose I am.”

Jim snorted; he’d never heard Spock talk like that before, his tone almost insolent. “You did give him attitude then? Good for you.”

Spock turned away. “I simply refused to… follow an order.”

“What order was that?”

Spock gave no reply, opened the dishwasher and began to put away the clean plates and glasses. His movements were tense, almost angry. Jim was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

“Spock.” He put his hands over the other boy’s just as Spock was about to grab another plate, stilling the movement. “What order?”

Spock said nothing, staring past Jim at a spot on the far wall.

“Spock…”

“Just leave me be!” Spock shook off his hands and slammed the plate down on the counter (it didn’t smash, but it was a close thing). “I do not wish to talk about it.”

In Jim’s mind, the ‘shutters’, as he’d come to think of them, had banged closed, blocking him completely from Spock’s thoughts and feelings. The rejection could not have been more clear if Spock had slammed an actual door in his face, and Jim took an involuntary step back.

It hurt more than he had expected, being pushed away like this.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. We don’t have to.”

Thinking about it later, Jim often wished he’d stayed, that he hadn’t turned around and left Spock standing in the kitchen without even trying.

But he was fourteen, and he was hurt, and so it was what he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some graphic and violent images. Please take the warning seriously, and check the more detailed warning at the end of the chapter if you're worried about being triggered. Thank you.

The noise that woke him wasn’t very loud. Maybe (and Jim thought about this only much later, when it was all over and his life had been turned upside down in a way that could not be reversed) maybe it wasn’t even the noise that had woken him. Maybe Spock’s blocking him out could only do so much, and he’d… sensed it, somehow.

He didn’t know. And even in retrospect, it didn’t really matter.

The noise wasn’t loud, but it was persistent – a thump, followed by a soft creak, followed by another thump. Creak, thump. Creak, thump.

Jim got out of bed, glancing at the old-fashioned digital clock on the wall. It was 2:30. He’d fallen asleep only an hour ago, after a day spent lying on his bed, listening to _The Beast_ and trying not to think of much. Moping, Sam would have called it, but what did he know.

There was a short pause, after which the noise started up again. Creak, thump.

Jim went into the hallway. For some reason, he didn’t switch on the light and simply stood there, listening. The noise was louder now. It was coming from Frank’s room across the hall. The sound of bed springs creaking and someone panting.

There had been times in Jim’s life when he had been truly scared – scared enough to freeze and put his hands over his ears to shut out the world – but this turned out to be not one of them.

There was no fear or panic as he went back into his room, just a strange sense of calm and deliberation as he looked around, found what he was looking for and grabbed it before heading back into the hallway. It rested heavily in his hand, the way it had when he and Sam had been outside in the yard hitting a few balls.

He turned the door knob to Frank’s room. It wasn’t locked, and Jim pushed it open.

The room was dark save for the light from the games console.

Frank was on the bed, his back turned to the door and Jim. He was kneeling between two pale legs, his hands gripping skinny wrists. He moved in a clumsy rhythm, pushing into the body beneath him with enough force to drive the bed against the wall. Again and again.

Creak, thump.

The next few seconds were very clear in Jim’s memory, although he only ever remembered his actions, not what he’d felt – if he had felt anything at all. He recalled with perfect clarity walking across the room and raising the baseball bat, all in a single movement. He remembered the crack that sounded like wood breaking, and Frank’s bellow of pain, remembered bringing the bat down again and again, even when it no longer hit hard bone but drove into something soft. He remembered a noise like a boot stomping on rotten apples.

Frank had long stopped moving when Jim dropped the bat. He’d slumped sideways on the bed, a dark halo quickly growing around his head.

Spock moved away from the body and the blood, pulling his knees up to his bare chest, as if to minimize the chance that he might touch the still human on the bed.

“You killed him.”

“Yeah.”

Spock got up from the bed and began to walk to the door.

“Where – where are you going?”

Spock paused, a dark silhouette in the open door. “To wash.”

He turned, and Jim followed him into the hallway, where he found that his knees refused to support him as they should. He sat down, his back against the wall, and watched as Spock quietly closed the door to Frank’s room.

“Do not go back in there.”

Jim shook his head, not trusting his voice. He watched as Spock went into the bathroom (the one which he was only ever allowed inside to clean) and heard the sound of the shower being turned on.

Spock stayed in the shower for a long time. Jim listened to the muffled splashing, an innocuous sound that reminded him of sitting in the bathtub with Sam, their entire fleet of plastic spaceships floating around them. It was a good place to be, and Jim tried to stay there, tried to keep his thoughts on foamy space battles and his brother’s laughing face. Mom had come in and sighed when she saw the puddles on the floor, but then she’d sat down on the rim of the tub, helped them wash their hair and told them about spaceship engines and transporters and warp nacelles. She knew everything, being an Earthfleet engineer, and the Kirk brothers couldn’t have been more proud of their mother.

Jim leaned his head against the wall. His sobs came out harsh and broken, and he didn’t even try to hold them back.

At some point, the light was switched on and he became aware of Spock standing in front of him, dressed in an old t-shirt and sweats that had belonged to Sam once. His hair was still damp from the shower.

“Come,” he said, holding out a hand, and Jim allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He followed Spock into the bathroom, watching numbly as the Vulcan boy turned on the faucet.

“You should wash it off,” Spock said softly.

Jim looked down. His hands and arms were sprinkled red up to his elbows.

“Jim,” Spock said.

Jim stepped to the sink and stuck his hands under the faucet, watching the water turn pale pink as it swirled down the drain.

“Allow me.” Spock took a washcloth from the shelf and began washing him gently, first one hand, then the other, methodically cleaning every trace of red off his skin. The water had long since lost its pink tint when Spock put the washcloth aside.

“Here.” A towel was held out to him, and Jim took it. He wiped himself dry, rubbing at his skin until it glowed and he could no longer feel the stickiness of where the blood had been.

He looked at Spock. The Vulcan boy’s face was almost white, his eyes wide and dark. In one corner of his mouth Jim noticed a trickle of bright green blood.

“What do we do, Spock?” He hated the tears that rose into his eyes, hated the way his voice cracked as he spoke. “What do we do now? He’s _dead_. I – I just wanted him to stop.”

Spock took his hand. “We rest,” he said simply. “That is what we will do.”

Jim let himself be guided past Frank’s closed door, back into his own room. Spock helped him into bed like Sam had done once, pulling up the covers and tucking them under him.

“Sleep now.”

“Spock…” Jim reached out before he knew what he was doing. Spock stilled under his touch. “Stay? Please?”

Spock was still very pale. He said nothing, merely looked down at the hand on his arm as if he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

“Please,” Jim repeated. “I – I won’t touch you or anything. Just stay?”

“You are touching me now,” Spock said, but at the same time, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Jim closed his eyes and swallowed. He would not have to stay alone in his room with his uncle’s dead body next door.

“Sorry,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Sorry.”

“It is of no consequence.”

Spock slipped under the covers, and Jim moved over to make room for him. After settling down on the pillow Jim gave him, Spock lay very still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Listening for the hum in his mind, Jim sensed that Spock’s shutters were firmly in place. The Vulcan boy did not want to share his thoughts.

But Jim found he could not stay silent. “Did…” he paused, not sure how to put it, because how _did_ you talk about stuff like that? “Did he hurt you bad?”

Spock stared at whatever he was seeing in the empty space before him. “There is some pain. I have experienced worse.”

Jim’s throat felt very tight. “That happened to you before?”

Spock said nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

At that, Spock turned his head. “To what purpose?”

Jim shook his head. He was _not_ going to cry again. “You should’ve told me.”

“Vulcans do not speak of these things.”

“Says who?”

Spock’s eyes were no longer as empty as they’d been, narrowing in anger at Jim’s words. "Humans do not understand.”

“I’m not a-” Jim trailed off, realizing just what he’d been about to say. “I mean, that’s not true. I’m not like that. I’d understand.”

“You believe so?”

Jim nodded, and suddenly Spock was very close, leaning over him, his breath hot on Jim’s face. He looked – mad, like an insane version of himself with blood on his lips and eyes that glittered in the dark.

“What are you-”

“You want to understand, James Kirk,” Spock spat. “Then do.”

His fingers felt icy on Jim’s face.

_“My mind to your mind.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning (contains spoilers): This chapter deals with rape and graphic violence, as well as a character death.
> 
> So, not sure I should ask, but... what do you think??


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your positive and encouraging reviews!
> 
> Please please keep the warnings in mind when reading this chapter, and check the end-of-chapter notes if you're worried you might be triggered by certain topics. The chapters after this one won't be as dark, I promise.

He is four years old, and Mommy loves him loves him loves him.

She says it often – “Spock, I love you, love you, love you” – and sometimes she cries and holds him too tight. Sometimes she doesn’t visit for a few days and when she does come back her eyes are sad, but she loves him loves him loves him.

All he knows is the little cottage, a long way from the house where Not-Grandmother and Not-Grandfather live (“that boy is no grandchild of mine, Amanda, never will be”) and the park around it. He is not to go to the house, and he doesn’t want to. He knows that he is not welcome there, that he is an embarrassment and a ‘dirty little secret’. He has heard people say these things, and he knows but doesn’t understand, T’Bey bathes him every night and puts new clothes on him so that he can be a clean little boy when Mommy comes to see him.

One day, Not-Grandfather comes to the cottage. He doesn’t talk to Spock, doesn’t even look at him, and T’Bey who is old and strict and never smiles listens in silence, her head bowed, when he says that Mommy won’t be coming back, that she’s gone away for her health. And for the first time, Spock understands that Not-Grandfather is lying, as humans do.

But she doesn’t come back. And when the man comes to take him away, T’Bey just stands there with her eyes turned the other way, pretending not to hear him cry.

He doesn’t see his mother again.

###

He is eight, and the small ones call him _sa-mekh_ , father, although he has explained to them the illogic of this. But they do not understand. They are only two or three years old, the small ones in his care, and they do not understand that the one who feeds them and washes them and changes them is not _sa-mekh_. To them, it is logical that he should be named so, and his own logic fails against theirs.

Spock is given nine or ten small ones to care for. He is good at it – if not, he would have been sold, as most of them are. But the keepers hate taking care of the small ones, hate their crying and their constant need for attention, and so they split them between Spock, Selvin and T’Jin. Selvin is also _sa-mekh_ , and T’Jin is _ko-mekh_. Nothing they say can convince the little ones otherwise.

Spock sleeps in a room with his small ones, all of them huddled together on four threadbare mattresses. Vulcans do not usually sleep like this, but it is cold – so cold that there are nights when the small ones cry until Spock takes their hands in his and blows on their fingers to warm them up. Even if they cry, Spock makes sure that they do it quietly. If there is too much noise, one of the keepers will come in with their cane in hand. Sometimes they strike the small ones, but that only makes them cry harder. Mostly they strike Spock.

On some days, the keepers throw in a bag with clothes. On those days, Spock takes the small ones to the shower two by two, washes them, cleans the dirt from under their nails, combs their hair and dresses them in those little white smocks the keepers provide. When they ask him, he tells them that they are going to meet some humans today, humans who want them to look nice.

He does not lie. He never lies to them.

The sale takes place in a big hall, brightly lit and loud. Spock takes the small ones there, making sure they stay together. The keepers direct him to a corner and there they have to stay, standing in line, sometimes for hours or even half a day. Human three-year-olds could not do it, but Vulcan children are capable of great discipline even at a young age. If one of them does begin to fidget and complain, Spock gives them a piece of dry fruit in exchange for their compliance. He always keeps a supply in a little bag just for those days.

The humans come and go, some walking by without sparing a glance at the children, some stopping to examine one or just pat them on the head like one would a puppy. Whenever someone takes an interest in one of his flock, Spock looks at them closely, searching kindness in their eyes. Sometimes it is there, sometimes not. A trader always hovers close by, ready to waylay any potential customer and close the deal.

Spock is expected to make sure that the sale goes smoothly. That means no crying, no holding onto another child, no struggling or screaming. He doesn’t always succeed, and every single time it tears another hole into his katra, watching as one of his small ones is carried off.

Some sale days end with him standing there alone. Sometimes two or three of the children are left, crowding close to him and staring at the passing humans as if they were rabid _le-matya_.

He knows that the next day, the keepers will send a new group into his room, for him to take care of until they, too, are due for sale.

This is his life up to the day when one of the humans, a gray-haired man with harsh lines on his forehead, ignores the small ones and looks at Spock instead.

“This one,” he says to the trader. “I’ll make you a good offer.”

Spock detects no kindness in his eyes.

###

He is twelve and the property of Alexander Marcus, retired Earthfleet admiral and owner of a very exclusive spa. The spa has been built in a secluded mountain area and is frequented only by a small number of guests, most of them Fleeters. It is a by-invitation-only place.

Marcus prides himself on his good taste. His suites are a far cry from the seedy atmosphere one might find in a city brothel. There is no fake fur, no tacky red lighting, no cheap champagne. If there is any hint of opulence, it is sure to be exquisite and understated, such as bed frames made from hand-carved ebony or an antique lamp from the 19th century placed unobtrusively in a corner. His guests expect high standards, and they pay accordingly.

The children are hand-picked, as well. As Marcus likes to tell his guests, he selects every one of them himself, accepting only flawless examples of Vulcan beauty. He dresses them in ornate robes of Vulcan cut (or what he believes to be Vulcan attire) and has them play the lyre for his guests or dance ‘in the exotic style of their home world’. There are strict instructions on how they must present themselves – cultured, submissive and mostly silent.

On the first day, Marcus takes Spock aside and tells him that no one must find out about his mixed heritage. “I’ll kill you. Don’t think I won’t. If anyone finds out, I’ll cut your throat faster than you can say ‘half-breed mutt’.”

Spock believes him. He tells no one, and no one ever suspects.

He learns how to dance and play the Vulcan lyre (Marcus’ attendants have a very efficient method of teaching, which involves food in exchange for a flawless performance, and a cane blow to the open palm for every mistake). Every child new to Marcus’ establishment is rather thin and constantly nursing their sore hands.

He learns how to do the other things required of him, and although, after the first time, he believes that he cannot go on living, he can and he does. They all do.

One day, Spock walks into the bathroom and finds Sular in the tub, floating in a sea of green. His wrists have been cut with pieces of a smashed mirror. In a fit of rage, Marcus throws the dead boy’s body into the trash, then orders them all into the yard and has his attendants whip every single one of them. Later, back in their sleeping area, T’Par says what they are all thinking – if nothing else, Marcus’ behavior is the height of illogic. By incapacitating his surviving slaves, all he managed to achieve was losing more money.

But Marcus does not care about logic. If another of them attempts suicide, he threatens to kill two more in retribution. This, too, is anything but logical, but the children believe him. After Sular, none of them dare try.

There is no child at the spa older than sixteen, and they all know that girls whose breasts become too full, boys whose chest hair begins to show, will simply be gone one day. When a client refuses him after seeing the dark curls growing between his legs, Spock knows that it is only a matter of time.

A month later, one of the attendants takes him out of the sleeping area in the early hours of the morning. Of the others, only T’Par is awake. She looks at him and nods once. It is the only goodbye there will be.

Outside, Marcus is waiting with the trader.

###

He is fifteen, and the staff at the slave depot classify him as Category C merchandise – a half-breed and discarded child prostitute, the bottom of the barrel.

The trader still manages to wangle his buyer into paying 3500 credits, pointing out his better-than-average looks. (“Too thin,” the buyer says. “I need him to work, not look pretty.” “It all comes in handy,” the trader grins as the man hands over his card).

His new owner doesn’t talk much, which suits Spock fine. Sitting in the man’s AirVan, he stares out the window and sees nothing but endless fields and a road that seems to go on forever. He doesn’t know anything about the human next to him. There are those who spend several thousand credits just for the pleasure of killing a sentient, intelligent being with their own hands, leaving the dead body in a ditch somewhere. Spock knows this. He doesn’t really know if he cares.

It turns out that the man does not want to kill him. They arrive at a farmhouse, and there is a boy his age with blond hair and curious blue eyes. The boy talks to Spock as if he were a real person, offering him a glass of iced tea with a strange object that turns out to be a drinking straw. The boy’s name is Jim, and he seems to be very illogical.

Spock still doesn’t care much about anything, but it is… intriguing to watch and see what Jim will do next. He has never met anyone quite like him.

###

Spock knows it is going to happen at some point. He can see it in Frank’s eyes, and feel it in the unwelcome brushes against his mind whenever the man touches him (a hand on his leg, a quick feel of his backside). Once, Jim is present at one of these occasions and becomes rather irrational, provoking a violent outburst from his uncle.

After that, Spock hopes that when it happens, Jim will not be there to witness it. And it turns out that Frank is in agreement. The first night Jim is gone, off to his rehabilitation program, is the first night Spock does not spend locked up in his room behind the kitchen.

Humans are innately illogical, Spock knows. For some strange reason, relieving his sexual frustration does not improve Frank’s disposition. His moodiness increases, as does the amount of alcohol he consumes. Spock does not exactly regret this; whenever the human is passed out on the couch, he is left in peace.

Something changes between them; perhaps it is the mind bond Spock shares with Jim and the strength he draws from it, or maybe the fact that sexual encounters, no matter how forced and one-sided, change the power dynamics between any two beings.

Spock no longer obeys every order, and Frank seems unsure how to handle the situation. He strikes Spock, and when that does not result in the desired obedience, strikes him again. Spock finds he doesn’t care much.

Then Jim comes back and things change again in a way Spock had not foreseen. It happens in the kitchen, the morning after Jim’s return. He refuses to kneel down in front of the human and do as he is ordered; the man slaps him in the face and Spock still does not obey. And then, Frank’s eyes narrow and instead of shouting his voice becomes very quiet and very hateful. “Just be glad I don’t make your little boyfriend do it instead.”

They can hear Jim’s steps on the stairs, and Frank grabs a glass from the table and throws it at Spock’s feet. “You better change your lazy ways if you know what’s good for you. Now clean that up, you little shit.”

That night, when Frank orders him to go upstairs and undress, Spock does not offer any resistance. He can bear it; he has before.

He cannot bear the thought of Jim in his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the trafficking of sentient beings, sexual child abuse, child prostitution, violence and rape. Please read at your own discretion.
> 
> I would love to know what you think!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sharing your thoughts, I really appreciate hearing from you and reading your thoughts and ideas on the story! Sorry this one took a little longer!

The next morning, Jim woke alone in his bed.

The sun shone brightly in his face, and he kept eyes closed, letting his skin soak up the warmth. His cheeks itched from the tear tracks he hadn’t washed off, and his eyes felt swollen and heavy.

The sun was nice, though.

There were images in his head, of faces he’d never seen and people he had never met, and some of them were so awful that he couldn’t bear dwelling on them. Some of the worst were blurred, as if the original owner of the memory had drawn a veil across them in his mind. Others were very distinct and clear – the faces of Vulcan boys and girls, all between ten and sixteen. Jim knew their names, their stories (shared quietly when no humans were listening, the only thing that was truly theirs); he even knew that T’Par was terribly afraid of dogs because she’d been bitten as a small girl, and that Sren liked to draw on any scrap of paper he could get his hands on. He knew now that unlike humans, Vulcans did not embrace one who needed comfort, but simply sat next to the grieving person and offered support through silent companionship. He knew, because Spock did, how to treat severe injuries and infections with nothing but a basic first aid kit, and he knew just how painful a case of gonorrhea could be to a thirteen-year-old.

He knew, after looking through Spock’s eyes, that human adults were nothing short of terrifying. They were monsters, plain and simple. He knew that to one fifteen-year-old Vulcan, Jim Kirk was the only person in the universe who deserved any kind of trust.

Jim Kirk, who had killed the monster.

And who, by doing so, had become some kind of monster himself, someone who did not regret beating his own uncle to death with a baseball bat.

No, Jim could not find any remorse within himself. There was guilt, yes, and the heavy knowledge that to all intents and purposes, he had become a murderer.

But he wasn’t sorry that Frank was dead. Frank had hurt his bondmate, his _t’hy’la_ , and for this, he had died. Last night, Jim had only just stopped himself from saying that no, he wasn’t human, not one of the monsters. And maybe part of him really had left humanity behind, the part in his mind that was reserved for Spock and only Spock. A Vulcan defended his bondmate to the death. So would Jim.

A cloud shifted in front of the sun, taking its warmth away, and Jim opened his eyes. Maybe it was strange, considering the events of the past night, but he was hungry. Very much so.

He got up, put on his jeans and an old sweater, and made his way downstairs. Opening the stasis unit in his search for food, he saw that someone - probably Spock - had left a neat stack of pancakes in the unit’s ‘hot’ section. He took out the plate, grabbed a bottle of syrup from one of the cupboards and carried his impromptu breakfast through to the living room.

Jim had expected to find Spock there; what he hadn’t expected was The King, sprawled like a long fur snake on the carpet and in the process of having his belly rubbed by gentle Vulcan hands. The tom had never come into the house before; Jim wasn’t sure that the old stray had ever been in a human dwelling in his life. But here he was, purring and looking right at home.

“He has come to say goodbye.” Spock spoke without looking up, still intent on running his fingers through the thick fur.

Jim sat down on the floor next to them, holding his plate in his lap. “He’s leaving?”

Spock inclined his head. “He has found a farm 6.5 miles east from here. The people who run the farm are fond of him and leave out the occasional gift of fresh fish or chicken. And he knows that we will not be here much longer.”

“What?”

Spock looked at Jim for the first time. “I am only repeating what he told me.”

Jim did not ask how The King had told Spock. “Tell him good luck for me.”

“He thanks you for sharing your food.”

Jim ate his pancakes and watched Spock pet the huge tom. Spock’s face had softened, the way it always did when Spock interacted with the cat, the only being (with himself a possible exception) the Vulcan boy did not mind touching.

“I must ask your forgiveness,” Spock said after a while. He avoided Jim’s eyes, looking at The King instead.

“What do you mean?” Jim asked.

“I initiated a mind meld without your permission,” Spock said softly. “To Vulcans, doing so is an unforgivable violation of a person’s privacy.”

And to humans, a crime that deserves the death penalty. Jim knew this. He’d heard of owners who had caught two of their Vulcan slaves melding and shot them immediately, no questions asked.

“S’okay,” he said.

He knew that this was it; they weren’t going to talk about it. Spock could no more find words for the things he had shared than he could bring himself to trust an adult human. And Jim wouldn’t have known what to say. Spock had lived through hell. Some people wouldn’t be sitting here with their sanity more or less intact after what Spock had been through. How could Jim talk about it, without dragging the demons out of the depth where Spock had buried them?

“ _Shaya tonat_ ,” Spock said. Jim knew that Vulcans did not lightly thank someone, not unless human conventions forced them to do so. A Vulcan thank you, spoken in the _tsatik lakh_ , always had several layers of meaning and was never uttered without thought.

“ _Vik’muhl_.” It was the traditional reply Spock had taught him, and Spock accepted it with another slight inclination of his head.

They sat quietly for another few minutes, Spock continuing to pet the cat while Jim finished the last of the pancakes.

“He’s right, you know,” Jim said finally, setting the plate aside. “We should leave. We can’t stay, not with…”

He didn’t say it, and Spock didn’t ask.

“You know I cannot leave the premises,” he said softly. “The programming in my collar would render me unconscious and possibly alert the authorities.”

The collar around Spock’s neck was so much part of the Vulcan boy’s appearance that Jim forgot it was there most of the time. Which, he guessed, was easy enough for someone who had never been forced to wear such a contraption himself. He doubted Spock ever forgot about it.

“Sylon broke his,” he said. “Maybe there’s something we can use.”

“Sylon had a child’s collar. They’re not as durable. I doubt I could use heat to destroy the electronics in this one.”

“We can’t just stay here, Spock.”

“No,” Spock said, determinedly not looking at him. “You should not.”

It took a moment until Jim caught on. “No!”

The King started and gave him a reproachful look.

“No,” Jim repeated, lowering his voice. “No way. I’m not going without you, Spock.”

“It is the logical choice.”

Jim narrowed his eyes at the other boy. “Like hell it is. You’re coming with me, or I’m not going either.”

“As I have pointed out before, I am unable to leave the premises.”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “But we know someone who might be able to do something about that.”

###

Leonard McCoy didn’t ask too many questions; not after Jim told him about Frank. He seemed a little paler than before, but all he said was:

“Did you use a secure connection to make this call?”

Jim nodded. He’d used Frank’s padd, and had activated two not-quite-legal apps that would scatter his signal and make it untraceable. He had no doubt that when the body was eventually discovered, they’d check every single transmission that had been made to and from the farm. Watching all ten seasons of “The Lunar Syndicate” had taught him _something_.

“Okay,” McCoy said. “Okay. First things first. You boys go and get rid of that padd once we’re done talking – you got any way to destroy it for good?”

“The industrial garbage disposal,” Spock said. Jim knew the Vulcan boy was very familiar with that particular piece of equipment, having spent more than one afternoon pushing crates and old machinery down its chute.

“Yeah, sounds good. After that, pack two bags – just the essentials, some clothes to change into, some toiletries, stuff like that. Don’t leave the house and don’t answer any calls, no matter who it is. You got that?”

They nodded.

“Okay. I’ll be there when it’s dark so no one will recognize my car. I’ll get a rental, but better be safe.”

“What about Spock’s collar?” Jim asked.

“Let me worry about that, kid. It’s not the first time I got rid of one of the damned things.”

Jim swallowed. “Should we – do something about the… the body?”

McCoy shook his head. “The evidence is there, and they’ll find it no matter what you do. I don’t want you two messing around with it, you hear me?”

Jim nodded, trying not to show his relief. The idea of going into that room and looking at the dead thing that had been his uncle was nauseating. Despite his suggestion to McCoy, he wasn’t sure he could have brought himself to touch it, let alone removed it from where it lay.

“Where are you taking us?” Spock asked. He sounded calm, but Jim noticed the trace of wariness in his voice, the way he’d been sitting more stiffly ever since McCoy’s face had appeared on the screen. He wouldn’t refuse McCoy’s help, no. It didn’t change the fact that McCoy was a male human adult and that Spock did not trust him.

McCoy shook his head. “Not now, son. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

Jim nodded, and McCoy ended the call, wasting no time with niceties.

Spock stared at the blank screen where the doctor’s face had been. “He may decide to alert the authorities.”

Jim wanted to say that McCoy would never do such a thing, but the truth was, he’d met the man only once, and knew next to nothing about him. McCoy hated slavery and helped Vulcans who were on the run. That didn’t necessarily mean he was ready to aid and abet a murderer.

“I didn’t know what else to do.” He hated sounding so pathetic, but it was the truth. Another truth was the big fat lump of tears at the bottom of his throat, threatening to make itself known any minute.

_(that sound of wood connecting with bone, that wet squelch, he knew he’d hear it forever)_

Spock touched his arm. Jim didn’t look at him, not until long Vulcan fingers closed around his wrist and squeezed gently.

“There is no shame,” Spock said softly. “The cause is sufficient.”

Jim wasn’t sure what he meant – it sounded like one of those ritual phrases Spock would use once in a while – but the words made the lump in his throat feel somewhat less painful.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I guess.”

The King purred in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you think!


	20. Chapter 20

“Stay very still now,” McCoy said.

Spock obeyed, his head slightly tilted to one side. McCoy raised the phaser which he’d spent the last two minutes carefully calibrating.

“Don’t move.”

McCoy pressed a button, and a needle-thin orange beam appeared, calculated down to a nanometer to cut through the collar while not touching a hair on Spock’s skin. McCoy’s hands, used to guiding laser scalpels through living flesh, were perfectly steady. He made a simple cut, then deactivated the weapon.

“You can take it off now.”

Spock’s hands came up almost hesitantly, hooking his fingers around the collar.

“It’s safe,” McCoy said. “Nothing will happen. The mechanism’s broken.”

Spock pulled it off, wincing as the edges dragged across his skin. Jim noticed a faint green mark where the collar must have chafed against his neck.

“That’ll go away in a week or two,” McCoy said. “I’ll give you some salve to put on it.”

Spock looked at the broken collar in his hand, and for a second Jim thought the Vulcan boy wanted to throw it on the floor, maybe kick it into the farthest corner. He didn’t, of course. It wouldn’t have been logical.

“Give it here,” McCoy said quietly. Spock handed it over, and McCoy did drop it on the floor, recalibrated the phaser’s settings and vaporized the collar without further ado.

“So much for that. They didn’t implant you with one of those tracking chips, did they?”

“No,” Spock said. “It was deemed unnecessary at the time.”

Meaning, Frank had been unwilling to pay the extra hundred credits it would have cost. For once, his stinginess would work in their favor.

“Good,” McCoy said matter-of-factly. “Those things are a pain to cut out. You boys all set to go?”

Jim looked down at the two backpacks sitting next to the kitchen table. They’d packed what McCoy had said: toiletries, some clothes – Sam’s clothes, in Spock’s case – and a few credit chips Jim had taken out of their hiding place in the kitchen drawer. Even so, he didn’t feel at all prepared.

Nor, it seemed, did Spock. “Where are we going, sir?”

“Someplace you’ll be safe.”

Jim made no move to pick up his backpack. “Is that all you’re gonna tell us?”

McCoy sighed, running a hand across the back of his neck. “Look, kid. I don’t think it’ll happen, but even out here in bumfuck nowhere, there might be a cop interested in stopping my car and asking me where I’m going. They might even ask you. And if they do, I’d rather all you know is that you’re my younger brother and we’re on a road trip down south, dragging our little Vulcan slave along so he can carry our bags. That’s the story for now. Everything else you’ll see in time.”

Jim could see that Spock liked it no more than he did, but what choice did they have? Exchanging a brief look and a shrug (on Jim’s part), they picked up their backpacks, grabbed their jackets and followed McCoy outside.

It was snowing again – or rather, there was a winter storm raging outside with snow, sleet and rain mixed into it to equal, unpleasant degrees.

“Good thing, too,” McCoy shouted to be heard over the wind. “No one outside in weather like this.”

And with good reason, Jim thought, holding up the hood of his jacket with both hands. He wouldn’t have trusted Frank’s AirVan in a storm like this.

McCoy’s rental, thankfully, looked sturdier than the old van (or, for that matter, the rusty car McCoy had driven here for his last visit).

“You boys get in the back,” McCoy ordered. “If anyone stops us for any reason, pretend to be asleep.”

Jim let Spock climb in first, which the Vulcan boy did without looking back. Spock, Jim knew, was leaving behind nothing but another place where he had never been at home – where he had been just one more piece of property like the AirVan or the games console.

Save for the weeks spent at the Camuti Clinic, Jim had never lived anywhere but here. Not that he loved the place, but still. It was strange, knowing that he wouldn’t be coming back.

There was no time for one last look, though – he could hardly make out the shape of the house through the gales of snow, and McCoy started the car without further ado, cursing under his breath when the wind knocked it slightly off course.

“Goddamn weather ‘round here, doesn’t get like that back home.”

“Alabama?” Jim guessed, mostly just to say something.

“Georgia.”

They didn’t speak after that, with McCoy concentrating on the road and Spock staring into the dark, meditating or simply lost in his own thoughts.

After a day spent doing nothing (except for freaking out whenever he heard the sound of an aircar in the distance, and worrying himself sick), Jim hadn’t expected to be very tired, but it turned out that he was.

He tried to stay awake, mostly so Spock would feel safer (he could feel the other boy’s wariness of the adult sitting so close to them), but kept nodding off and jerking awake again. The warmth and the soft hum of the aircar’s engine didn’t exactly help.

When Jim jerked up for the third time, Spock turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe you should simply sleep, Jim.”

_It is alright_ , he added through their mind-bond.

Jim settled down after that, resting his head on his bunched-up jacket and tried to think of nothing at all. It was a mere matter of minutes until he was asleep.

###

Jim woke to an empty car and a second of bright panic. Then, his head cleared and he began to take in his surroundings. They’d stopped along the road, in the middle of nowhere, as far as Jim could see. It was still dark outside, but the storm had settled, and in the distance, he could see a thin yellow line on the horizon that told of the impending sunrise.

A knock on the car window startled him. McCoy was standing outside, and behind him, Jim could see Spock, holding a bottle of water and looking nervous.

Jim opened the car door. “Bathroom break?”

“Not exactly,” McCoy replied. “You should go now, though, if you need to. I don’t really want to make another stop any time soon.”

Jim climbed out of the car.

“Grab your backpack,” McCoy said. “You hungry?”

“Kind of.”

McCoy reached into his own backpack and took out a bag of chips. “Here. You two can share this.”

“I do not require sustenance at this time,” Spock said quietly. “You and Jim may share the food.”

“You’re a growing boy, you always ‘require sustenance’,” McCoy said. “No more of that skipping meals, you hear me? You’re too thin as it is.”

There was something so motherly – or maybe doctorly – about McCoy’s tone, gruff as it was, that it put Jim at ease.

He began to follow McCoy, who had set off for a dilapidated shed in the distance. It had the look of some farmer’s abandoned storage place for equipment. “Where are we going?”

“Gotta lose the car,” McCoy said. “They can trace those rentals via GPS, track the route we’re taking. We don’t want that.”

“We will continue on foot?” Spock asked.

McCoy shook his head. They’d arrived at the shed, and he pushed open the door, which miraculously didn’t make the whole ramshackle construction come down on their heads. In the shed’s gloomy interior, Jim could see the outlines of something big, covered in canvas.

“Here, give me a hand.”

McCoy started pulling off the canvas. Underneath, Jim realized, was another aircar – nondescript and not exactly a new model, but functional from what he could see.

“This was the closest one I knew of,” McCoy said. “We’re lucky it isn’t being used right now.”

“You have more of these hidden away,” Jim said.

“Yep. They all operate with the same unlocking code. When we help someone run away, we usually just give them the code and direct them to the closest car hiding spot. One of our people takes it back later.”

“A very efficient system,” Spock said. “How do you keep the electronic signature from being tracked?”

“Scattering app,” McCoy said. “You boys wait outside now.”

He got inside the aircar, tapped in a combination of numbers and once the engine had started, steered it out of the shed. The door was only marginally wider than the car, but McCoy seemed to have done this before, and set it down expertly outside on the snowy ground.

“Get inside,” he said. “I’ll put away the rental.”

They obeyed, watching as McCoy went back to the other car and steered it just as skillfully into the shed, then proceeded to cover it with the canvas.

Once they were back on the road, Jim opened the bag of chips, poured a large handful into a paper towel and handed it to Spock. He knew the Vulcan boy avoided touching his food if he could.

“Here. You can use another towel to pick them up.”

Aware that McCoy was watching him in the rear-view mirror, Spock took the food and slowly began to eat.

Jim did likewise, although with less refinement, pouring the chips into his hand and tossing them in his mouth. After a few bites, he held out the bag to McCoy.

McCoy grabbed a handful, and for a while, the aircar was silent except for the sound of two humans and one Vulcan munching on potato chips.

The sun had come up in the meantime, casting a strange light on the road, making it seem almost unreal.

“Are you gonna tell us where we’re going, now?” Jim asked after he’d shaken the last handful of crumbs out of the bag (kind of greedy, yes, but he _was_ hungry).

“You’ll see.”

Jim resigned himself to the fact that this was the only answer he was going to get… for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I really appreciate your thoughts and feedback!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with the story and sharing your thoughts!

They spent most of the following day on the road. Jim noticed that McCoy never took any of the big airlanes (or highways, as old people still called them), but kept to the countryside, passing small towns and the occasional farm in the distance. They were going south, and soon left the snow behind them. Jim kept an eye out for old road signs indicating that they had passed a state border, but there were none. He guessed that they must have reached Texas, by now.

They stopped once at a tiny supermarket next to a motel, and McCoy bought them some food – a salad for Spock, and sandwiches for himself and Jim. Jim tried to give him one of the credit chips he’d brought, but McCoy waved him off.

“We’ve got a number of credit cards that are charged to some fake account in Europe. We use them for these things to avoid tracing. Don’t worry, you’re not eating me out of house and home.”

“What about your position at the hospital? Will your absence not be noticed?” Spock asked, glancing up from his salad for the first time. He’d claimed that he wasn’t hungry, but contrary to his words had started inhaling the salad as soon as the plastic covering came off. Jim had always thought that Spock, unlike human boys, was just not that interested in food. He could see now that he had been wrong. McCoy actively encouraged the Vulcan boy to eat, giving him food he enjoyed, and Spock was more than happy to oblige.

“I had some vacation days coming up,” McCoy said. “I talked to my boss and asked her if I could take them a week early because of a family emergency. She’s okay, didn’t ask too many questions.”

“You’re going to a lot of trouble,” Jim said softly.

McCoy glanced at him in the rearview mirror, and for the first time since they had left Riverside, the tense lines of his face softened somewhat. He didn’t quite smile, but there was something about his eyes that spoke of happy thoughts.

“There’re some people I haven’t seen in a while. You two are just my excuse to drop in early.”

He didn’t elaborate on his cryptic statement, but soon after he turned on the radio and started humming along to some of the songs. Jim sensed that his mood had definitely lifted, and felt himself relax in turn.

There had been some tense moments when a police car had passed them by – Jim had had visions of being stopped, and some cop recognizing him (“that’s the kid they’re looking for everywhere, he killed his uncle”). Nothing had happened, however, the police car passing them by and going on its way as if they were just another group of law-abiding citizens.

McCoy had noticed his flinch and glanced at him in the mirror. “You’re okay, kid,” he’d said. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”

Now, with McCoy humming along to the radio and the late afternoon sun warming the car windows, Jim could almost believe it.

He looked over at Spock. The Vulcan boy was very quiet, not joining in when Jim and McCoy talked about the songs that were playing, and whether _The Beast_ was better than _Luna’s Sons_ (no competition, in Jim’s opinion, while McCoy thought _The Beast_ was just a cheap rip-off based on some twentieth-century group). Come to think of it, Spock had never shown much enthusiasm for Jim’s favorite band, either.

Carefully, unsure if he was doing it right, Jim nudged the bond in his mind.

_Hey._

Silence followed, then-

_Tonk’peh, Jim. [Hello, Jim.]_

_You okay?_

In the intimacy of their minds, Spock was far more likely to tell the truth, Jim knew.

_I do not know._

There was a flash of something – a memory – suppressed so quickly that Jim almost missed it. Almost.

_(hands gripping his wrists, the smell of beer and human sweat, and how could he ever have forgotten just how *awful* it was)_

Jim swallowed, but didn’t pull away.

_He’s dead. I’m glad he’s dead._

_I am, too._

Slowly, Jim reached out, placing his hand on the seat between them, two fingers outstretched. At first, Spock didn’t react. Then he let his own hand follow Jim’s, extending two fingers and oh so carefully resting them on Jim’s hand. The touch was very light, almost not there, but Jim still felt the tingling of the contact. There was nothing sexual about it, not like the time they’d made out in Sam’s old room. It was more of a reassurance, a comfort given through physical means. Humans might have hugged, but Jim knew that to Spock, a hug was nothing short of threatening.

He sensed Spock’s mind touch and felt the Vulcan boy slowly finding his center, calming his thoughts.

_Sleep_ , he suggested. _It’s okay. I’ll stay awake._

He knew that up until now, Spock had been too tense to do so, too wary of the human man sitting so close.

_I am being illogical…_

_S’okay. I get it. I’ll watch him for you, promise._

Spock relaxed visibly after that, leaning back in his seat and resting his head against the window. He must have been very tired, as it took only a few minutes for him to fall asleep.

McCoy looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Finally. I thought he’d never drop off.” He grabbed his jacket from the seat next to him and handed it to Jim. “Here. Cover him up some more. He looks cold.”

Jim did, tucking the jacket around Spock. The Vulcan boy didn’t wake up, just sighed a little and muttered something in his sleep.

McCoy was still watching them. “You two are pretty close, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jim said, more defensively than he’d meant to. “Yeah, we are.”

McCoy smiled, turning back to the road.

###

“Here we are.”

Jim blinked. Looking out the window, he saw… nothing. They’d crossed the Mexican border a while ago, a bored official waving them through with a mere perfunctory glance at McCoy’s fake ID. He hadn’t even asked about Jim and Spock.

Out here, there was nothing but wasteland, rocks and hills and shrubs all around. About fifteen minutes ago, they’d passed some kind of horse ranch, the only sign of life Jim had seen. Darkness was falling, and he wondered if McCoy was planning to spend the night in the car.

“I can keep watch if you wanna take a nap.”

McCoy grinned. “I didn’t mean we take a break. We’re there.”

He’d left the main road, navigating between low hills towards a large rock formation in the distance.

“You don’t see it?”

By then, Jim did. The rock formation wasn’t entirely natural; there was some kind of concrete construction, like a huge tunnel leading into the hill. He squinted, trying to make out more details in the fading evening light. Next to the black square that was the entrance, he saw an old sign with black letters on yellow, the kind he’d only ever seen in movies. _Refugio Antiaéreo -_ _Air Raid Shelter_ , the letters read.

“From World War III?” he guessed.

McCoy nodded. “Lots of them round here. People lived in them for months at a time during the worst bombings. Perfect place for a safe house.”

He steered the car towards the entrance. It looked like a giant black maw more than anything, the kind of place where you’d expect land mines to be hidden under every harmless-looking shrub.

“We’re just gonna take the car inside?”

“Sure,” McCoy said. “It’s what they used to do, back in the day. There’s a whole car park in there.”

They’d navigated inside by now, and Jim saw what he meant: the entrance opened into a big windowless hall, mostly empty save for a few rusty skeletons that must have been automobiles, a century or so ago. At the back of the hall, dark corridors seemed to lead deeper into the hill.

McCoy brought the aircar down, disengaging the engine. “Best wake him up,” he said with a glance at Spock. “We shouldn’t stay out here too long.”

“Spock.” When Spock didn’t react, Jim carefully touched his upper arm. “Spock. Wake up. We’re there.”

The Vulcan boy opened his eyes. After a second of bleary disorientation, his vision cleared, and he looked as awake and alert as always.

“Where are we?”

Jim looked at the window, at their gloomy surroundings that reminded him of an abandoned industrial hall. “I don’t know for sure. Some kind of ancient air-raid shelter.”

McCoy had left the car, and indicated for them to get out, as well. Jim did, careful to close the car door quietly. The giant hall seemed deserted, but it wasn’t the kind of place where you felt comfortable making a lot of noise. There was a feeling of being watched, of an undefined but very real presence that might or might not be threatening. If Jim believed in such things, he would have said that the place was haunted.

McCoy had dragged another ancient canvas out from somewhere, and began to cover the car. As he helped McCoy tug the covering in place, Jim noticed that around the hall, there were more objects – cars, perhaps – hidden underneath mouldy-looking plastic sheets.

McCoy had noticed his look. “Just in case someone wanders in here,” he said. “It’d look suspicious if there was a fleet of aircars parked in here.”

He lashed the canvas to hooks in the concrete floor. Like before, when McCoy had steered the hidden car out of the shed, Jim got the impression that McCoy had done this many times before. The doctor seemed to feel completely at home, unaffected by the eerie atmosphere of the place.

“Come on, boys, grab your things and let’s go.”

They did, navigating around broken crates and assorted rubble as they followed McCoy to the back of the hall. The fading daylight from the entrance did not quite reach the shadows back here, and they had to be careful not to trip and stumble. If not for the hidden aircars, Jim would have bet that no living person had walked along here for at least half a century.

McCoy was heading for one of the corridors, its entrance almost concealed behind one of the steel-enforced concrete piers that supported the ceiling. There was a sign fixed on the wall next to it, almost illegible from age and wear. _Sección D – Section D_ , was all Jim could make out.

“This place is a regular maze,” McCoy said. “They didn’t just seek shelter from the bombs in here, they built it that way to hide from invading enemy troops. _We_ don’t even know every nook and cranny, and we’ve been using it for more than fifteen years.”

He took a flashlight out of his backpack. “Come on.”

They went inside. Along the raw concrete walls, Jim could see ancient power lines and every twenty meters or so, a LED lamp fixture of a kind no one had sold in at least fifty years. They walked in the halo of McCoy’s flashlight, a small beacon in the utter darkness of the place. Once, Jim thought he saw something move on the floor, fleeing from the light.

“Rats,” McCoy said, unperturbed. “Don’t worry, they’re as scared of you as you are of them.”

He seemed to know exactly where he was going, rounding corners and once taking a short flight of stairs that led down to another corridor. Jim had to pick up his pace to keep up with him. Spock, who was almost as tall as McCoy, had an easier time of it, but he, too, was walking fast not to fall behind.

They were advancing deeper into the hill now. The air seemed cooler and damper down here, and it was hard to imagine that somewhere up there, a desert stretched as far as the eye could see. Back in the days of World War III, they must have felt safe this far underground, protected from the remote-controlled bombs and the notorious poison-gas capsules that had taken so many lives back then.

When McCoy finally came to a halt, Jim almost ran into him. “This is it.”

Jim could see nothing different about the place – just another stretch of dark corridor, its walls lined with ancient cables and signs that had long since faded. There was no door or exit he could recognize.

McCoy turned his face to the ceiling, angling the flashlight so that his features were clearly visible.

“It’s McCoy,” he said. “I’ve got the boys. No problems on our end.”

“A surveillance camera,” Spock said softly, pointing, and now Jim could see it, too: Fixed on the ceiling was a tiny black box, placed so unobtrusively that it could easily be mistaken for a part of the ancient power system. If you didn’t know it was there (or didn’t have a Vulcan with you to point it out), you would never notice anything different.

A short silence followed McCoy’s statement. Then, the wall next to them flickered, and what had appeared to be a stretch of impenetrable concrete dissolved into a steel door.

“Holo projectors,” McCoy said, a hint of pride in his voice. “That was T’Rhyn’s idea. She’s our resident tech nerd.”

He placed his thumb on the scanning pad next to the door, and the locking mechanism inside disengaged with an audible click.

McCoy smiled. “That’s it, boys. Home sweet home.”

He turned the handle, and the steel door slid back. Jim only got a glimpse of the place – huge, brightly lit, and filled with people – when a shout came from somewhere in the back.

“ _Sa-mekh_!”

The girl ran faster than any human girl could have done, her long dark braid bouncing behind her. McCoy knelt down, his arms wide.

“Joey!”

Her arms went around his neck and let go just as quickly. McCoy crossed his hands at the wrists, palms facing forward. and the little girl did the same, touching his hands.

“ _Diftor heh smusma, sa-mekh_ ,” she said.

“ _Sochya eh dif, T’Joan kofu t’nashveh_ ,” McCoy replied, as happy as Jim had ever seen him. He picked up the girl, balancing her easily on his hip.

“Jim, Spock,” he said. “Meet T’Joan, my daughter. She’s four.”

“Four years, two weeks and three days,” T’Joan corrected seriously, raising her hand in the Vulcan greeting. “ _Diftor heh smusma_ , Jim and Spock.”

McCoy smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... surprised :)? Please let me know what you think!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who has been following this story, especially to those of you who leave a comment - your feedback really makes my day!
> 
> Just to let you know, this fic is slowly wrapping up (after this, there will be one more chapter and an epilogue). Again, I'm really glad so many of you are enjoying it! I hope the final chapters will bring Jim and Spock's story to a satisfying end.

“Leonard. It is gratifying to see you. We did not expect you for another week.”

A Vulcan woman came walking towards them. She was very petite, with a pixie cut that emphasized her elfin features. She didn’t smile when she saw McCoy, but the expression in her dark eyes warmed, the way Jim had seen Spock’s do when he was happy.

The woman raised two fingers, and McCoy did the same. They exchanged the traditional Vulcan kiss, then McCoy leaned forward and pecked her on the lips. T’Joan watched the exchange with the indulgent air of any Vulcan four-year-old humoring their illogical parents.

“Hi, darlin’. I missed you.”

He put an arm around her shoulders, which she allowed, and turned back to Jim and Spock. “This is T’Lys, my wife. She runs this place.”

“I do not run this place, Leonard,” T’Lys said patiently. “I administrate it. There are many people who assist me in ensuring its continued existence.”

“Yeah, like I said, you run it.”

T’Lys raised an eyebrow, but chose not to argue. “ _Diftor heh smusma_ , Jim and Spock. Leonard has informed me of the circumstances of your escape. _Masu t’etek du’lar nufau, be’hai’lar dorli_.” [We offer you our water, honorable guests.]

“ _Sarlah etek nash’maat dvin-tor_ ,” [We come to serve this House] Spock replied with a bow. Jim quickly echoed the gesture.

McCoy closed the door behind them, his daughter still perched on his hip and looking very pleased with herself.

“Come on, boys. We’ll give you the grand tour.”

###

As they soon found out, McCoy had not exaggerated about a grand tour. The place was huge, and currently home to about sixty people, most of them Vulcans with a few humans thrown into the mix. Some of them only planned to stay for a few nights before they continued their journey south; others used the safe house to recuperate or wait for relatives still on the run. A few of them, like T’Lys, lived there permanently.

There was a big main hall with long tables and a communal kitchen, and several adjoining rooms where people slept and retreated to meditate. Blankets and curtains were used to ensure privacy even in cramped conditions like these. There were two large bathrooms with several shower cubicles, toilets and sinks – all of them quite ancient, as they’d been installed almost a century ago during World War III, but well-maintained and functional.

“There’s an underground well connected to the piping system,” McCoy explained. “When the first refugees discovered this place, they repaired it and reconnected it with the heating unit. The water’s clean, but you’ll want to take a shower early in the morning or late at night. In between, you’ll get lukewarm at the best. Sovek is planning to built a new generator; maybe that’ll help.”

“He has contacted an acquaintance who may be able to supply us with the necessary parts,” T’Lys added. “They are currently determining how to best transport them here.”

“That’s a problem sometimes,” McCoy said. “We’ve got to bring a lot of food and supplies in here, but we have to be careful not to be noticed.”

“Can you beam it in?” Jim asked.

“Some of it,” McCoy said. “We’ve got to use an anti-tracking emitter to scatter the signal, and that’s a lot of power our generator doesn’t really have. We try to bring most of it in by hand, but that involves a lot of people coming and going, of course. Some food can be grown in our hydroponics room or replicated, but not everything.”

“Sovek and T’Rhyn have discussed the possibility of installing solar panels in the hills,” T’Lys said. “It would supply us with additional energy for the replicator, but increase the risk of detection by 3.6 percent. We have yet to come to a decision at this point.”

“ _Sa-mekh_?” T’Joan asked softly. She had been quiet and, like Vulcan children tended to be, well-behaved during the tour, but now she was tugging at her father’s sleeve, trying to get his attention. “ _Sa-mekh_ , did you bring strawberries? May I see them?”

McCoy grinned. “See them or eat them?”

“Both,” the girl said, completely serious, and McCoy laughed.

“We’d better get back to the main room, then. You boys must be hungry, and I wouldn’t say no to a cup of Seyek’s coffee.”

Seyek, it turned out, was one of the Vulcans who had made the safe house their permanent home. He was an impressive man, taller even than the average Vulcan and built like an athlete. As T’Lys explained, he had taken it upon himself to organize the food supplies, maintain the hydroponics room and prepare communal meals.

He greeted Jim and Spock with the traditional gesture. “I am gratified you have arrived safely. May I offer you a meal?”

Jim eyed the large pot sitting on the stove. Whatever was inside it smelled delicious, and he realized just how hungry he was.

“Yes, please.”

“Sit, then,” Seyek ordered with typical Vulcan abruptness. He turned to the stove and began to ladle something thick and chunky into three plates (he’d added one for McCoy without asking).

“Here. It is _Bertakk_ soup with jalapeños. You may add sour cream if it is too spicy for your liking.”

“Thank you.”

Jim picked up his spoon, eyeing the plate Seyek had set in front of him. The ‘soup’ looked more like vegetarian chili – he could definitely spot beans and tomatoes in the mix, as well as the jalapeños Seyek had mentioned.

Seyek was watching him expectantly, and Jim realized that the tall Vulcan wouldn’t budge until he had tried the food. Carefully, he ate a mouthful. It was hot – hot enough for him to reach for the sour cream immediately – but delicious all the same.

Spock was eating with gusto, something Jim had seldom seen him do. “ _T’forati sanoi’li_ ,” [A satisfactory meal] he said to Seyek, who inclined his head.

“It would be advisable to consume two servings, _pi’sa-kai_. You are too thin.”

With this announcement, he turned away to wash the strawberries McCoy had produced from inside his backpack. T’Joan watched him intently. She did not smile when a bowl of the fragrant red fruits was set down in front of her, but her eyes lit up happily.

“Use your fork _,_ ” her mother admonished, and the girl obediently reached for the eating implement T’Lys handed her. Apparently, even little Vulcan children were taught not to touch food with their hands.

T’Joan was on her third strawberry when a gaggle of quiet, dark-eyed children gathered behind her. They did not ask for a share, but they watched like tiny hawks as the berries disappeared into T’Joan’s mouth.

“ _Ko-fu_ ,” [Daughter] T’Lys said.

T’Joan sighed a little, but turned around without arguing and held out the bowl. “ _Veh tik_.” [One each]

A dozen grubby little hands reached for the strawberries (none of them seemed to care about touching the food), and every little Vulcan bowed politely before disappearing to consume their prize. When they were gone, T’Joan was left with no more than four berries. She sighed again.

McCoy had noticed, put an arm around his daughter and pulled her against him.

“There’s another bag in my backpack,” he whispered. “We’ll get it out when the little gluttons are in bed, okay?”

T’Joan nodded, looking a little happier as she turned back to the meager remainder of her treat.

“You spoil her, Leonard,” T’Lys said, an amused twinkle in her eyes.

“Everyone needs spoiling, now and then,” McCoy replied. “On an unrelated note, I did manage to get the German chocolate you like so much.”

T’Lys raised an eyebrow at this. “Indeed.”

McCoy laughed. “You better take notes,” he said to Jim. “You wouldn’t think so, but the way to a Vulcan’s heart is definitely through their stomach.”

Jim felt his cheeks redden, and he took care not to look at Spock. It was strange, sitting here eating a home-cooked meal as if the last three days and nights hadn’t happened at all – as if they’d just come home after a long trip, to people who had awaited their return and looked forward to it. That was how it felt, to him. They were part of this place, had been ever since they’d come through the door, and to his horror, Jim felt tears rise in his throat.

He forced a smile and quickly turned back to his food. “Y-yeah.”

A hand settled on his shoulder. “It’s okay, kid,” McCoy said quietly. “It’s been a long couple of days. Why don’t you finish your food, and I’ll show you and Spock where you’ll be sleeping. How’s that sound?”

Jim nodded, keeping his head down. If a tear or two fell into Seyek’s _Bertakk_ soup, no one saw any need to mention it.

They finished their meal, thanked Seyek for his hospitality, and bid goodnight to T’Lys and her daughter (T’Joan seemed dead on her feet, but determined to stay awake for her second helping of strawberries).

McCoy showed them to one of the adjoining rooms, which had been divided into several sleeping areas through the use of curtains and folding screens. Behind them, Jim glimpsed bunk beds and pull-out couches, arranged in a way to allow maximum use of the limited space.

McCoy pulled back one of the curtains. “Here you are. Bedding and pillows are inside the couch. If you need anything else, let me know.”

Jim nodded. “Will do. Thank you. For… for helping us and all.”

McCoy smiled. “S’okay, kid. Get some sleep now. You too,” he said to Spock. “You look like you need it.”

With that, he disappeared through the curtain, obviously eager to get back to his family. Jim watched him go. McCoy hadn’t turned into a different person since arriving here, but he had changed – the premature lines on his forehead had faded, and he’d smiled and laughed more in the few hours they’d been here than he had during their entire trip. And he’d touched fingers with T’Lys, brushed against her arm or shoulder unobtrusively whenever he had a chance.

“I wonder how long they hadn’t seen each other,” Jim said. “McCoy and T’Lys, I mean.”

Spock had turned to their would-be bed, tugging at one of the straps in the front. Jim grabbed the other one, and the pull-out frame shot out, nearly tumbling them over.

“They are bondmates,” Spock said. “They are always connected.”

Jim didn’t ask how he knew. “Still. Seeing someone’s different than hearing them in your mind.”

He opened a drawer hidden in the couch frame, and pulled out a pile of sheets, blankets and pillows. They spread these on the bed, tugging here and there until the arrangement met with Spock’s approval (Jim would have crawled into the untidy heap and slept like that, but he knew Spock wouldn’t feel comfortable).

As he took off his shirt, he noticed that it smelled a little ripe – no wonder, he’d worn it for almost three days straight. He probably smelled a little ripe himself, but there was no way he was going drag himself to the bathroom tonight to take a shower. Spock would just have to deal.

He put on a pair of boxer shorts and an old sleeping shirt. From the corner of his eye, he saw Spock change into one of Sam’s t-shirts. It hung loosely on his frame, as did the shorts Spock slipped into. Seyek was right; Spock was still too thin.

They crawled under the blankets, which were warm and soft and smelled of laundry detergent. As he lay there, Jim felt some of the tension bleed from his body. He knew, rationally, that he had been safe since they had walked through the door behind McCoy, but only now did he _feel_ safe. Here, wrapped in warmth and lying close to Spock, his subconscious was finally beginning to believe that no one was going to come to drag him off to jail, and Spock off to the next slave trader. They had made it.

“Jim,” Spock said softly.

Jim turned his head to find the Vulcan boy watching him in the semi-darkness. “Yeah?”

“You… wept,” Spock said. He sounded hesitant. “At dinner. I wish to inquire if you are well.”

Jim knew that Spock’s English tended to become more stilted in awkward moments. Apparently, to a Vulcan, asking if someone was okay amounted to a very awkward thing to do.

He tried for a grin. “I’m okay. Really, it’s just…”

And then, to his great embarrassment, the tears came again, and this time he could do nothing to stop them.

“I- I’m okay. Really. I – I just…”

But how could he tell Spock, when he didn’t understand it himself? There was relief, fear, anger, guilt, grief (and really? He’d really grieve for someone who had raped his bondmate?), all balled into one hurtful mass in his chest, and he felt ashamed. Spock had been through so much more, and _he_ wasn’t crying like a baby.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Do not apologize,” Spock said quietly. “There is no cause for shame between bondmates.”

Jim felt a hand touching his under the blankets, and he took it, holding onto it as he let his tears soak the pillow. He wanted to wrap his arms around Spock and hold him tight, wanted to do what he’d been fantasizing about for so long and lose himself in the physical sensations.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, and I’m not gonna do anything. Just… can you just hold me?”

Spock hesitated briefly, and then he was close to Jim, his arms carefully slipping around him. He smelled clean, a little woodsy perhaps, and his skin was soft and smooth under Jim’s hands. Jim felt something stir in his groin, and knew that there was no hiding it from his bondmate.

“Just ignore it. I’m not gonna… I just want to be close to you.”

They lay wrapped around each other, and slowly, bit by tiny bit, Jim felt Spock relax. Through their bond, he could sense the battle that was going on inside the Vulcan boy – some of the worst moments in Spock’s life had happened in a situation very similar to this. It was the closeness of their minds, rather than their bodies, that Spock concentrated on and where he found peace.

_Bondmate_ , Jim thought-whispered, and felt an answering brush against his mind.

_Bondmate. Never and always touching and touched. Yes._

After that, it wasn’t long until they were both asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love to hear what you think!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post the final chapter and epilogue in one go, since I kept you guys waiting a little longer for this one (RL getting in the way...)
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has been following this story, and especially to the readers who left reviews - your feedback always made my day, and I'm so happy that so many of you engaged with story and took the time to share your thoughts.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the final two installments!

Jim woke to an empty bed and a mess of blankets on the floor, which he must have kicked off in his sleep. Spock’s night clothes were neatly folded on a chair next to the bed. The Vulcan boy had probably been up for a while; even if he had a choice, he tended to rise very early.

For a moment or two, Jim listened to the unfamiliar sounds of his surroundings; muffled voices talking in English and Vulcan, dishes clanking, the muted groaning of a water pipe close by. It was tempting to let the background noise lull him back into sleep.

Something smelled really nice, almost like waffles, and his stomach growled audibly. Jim sighed and rolled over to climb out of bed. With that smell filling his nostrils, it was unlikely that he was going to back to sleep.

He pulled on jeans and one of the sweaters he had brought (at some point soon, he’d have to find out where the showers were at, but more importantly, he needed to find Spock). After running a perfunctory hand through his hair, which probably messed it up even more, he drew back the privacy curtain and stepped into the room.

Last night, they had seemed to be the only people in here; everyone else had been in the main room or tucked away in their own sleeping alcove. Now, some of the curtains had been tied back, and Jim could see that they had shared the room with at least fifteen other people. In the area next to theirs, a Vulcan woman sat crosslegged on her bed, nursing a baby. Her chest was bare, and unlike human women, she saw no need to cover herself with a shirt or cloth. She met his eyes calmly.

“ _Tonk’peh_ ,” [Hello] she said. Her manner was so natural that Jim felt his initial embarrassment fade.

“ _Tonk’peh_ ,” he replied, and she turned back to her baby, unfazed by the young human and his sudden presence in her sleeping area.

“ _Nam’uh k’avon nash-gad_ ,” [You are hungry today] she said, and he realized that she was talking to the baby.

Leaving the two of them to their privacy, he stepped out into the main room. It was filled with people. Some of them sat in groups at the tables, eating breakfast or conversing quietly. Seyek and two other Vulcans were handing out plates from behind the kitchen counter, and Jim recognized the source of the alluring smell: some kind of pastry, looking vaguely like oatmeal cookies. Almost everyone had some on their plates.

He saw T’Joan sitting with a group of other young Vulcans, some of them the same children who had begged strawberries off her last night. An elderly man was supervising them, presumably their teacher. He said something Jim didn’t understand, and the children answered as one, their little faces calm and concentrated. School was obviously serious business.

“Jim!”

Jim turned, and found Spock and McCoy sitting at a table close by.

McCoy waved at him. “Look who’s finally up. C’mon, there’s someone who’s been waiting to meet you, kid.”

The ‘someone’ was perched on the bench next to Spock, barely able to keep from waving himself. He was even paler and thinner than the first time they had met, but there was no mistaking the distinctive gray eyes.

“Sylon!” Stopping himself from hugging the life out of the little Vulcan, Jim grabbed the boy’s shoulder instead. “When did you get here?”

Sylon looked as happy as Jim had ever seen him. “I arrived in Mexico City 4.6 weeks ago. I followed your instructions and hid on a freight train, then went to seek out the address you had given me. The people there took me to this shelter.”

“Crazy kid got here with second-degree burns all over his neck and hands,” McCoy added, shaking his head. “Had a fever from the infection and all.”

Taking a closer look, Jim could see fading greenish scars on Sylon’s neck. “The collar?” he asked.

Sylon inclined his head. “It was of the same manufacture as the first one. I deemed it logical to use the same method to free myself of it.”

“Logical my foot,” McCoy said. “Those burns were serious.”

“I could not stay,” Sylon said matter-of-factly. “I had to find my sister.”

“Do you know where she is?” Jim asked.

“It appears that she has continued further south,” Spock said, speaking up for the first time. “Sylon is planning to join her.”

He caught Jim’s eyes, one of his eyebrows slightly raised.

Jim sat down, reaching for one of the pastries on Spock’s plate. “Join her where?”

“That’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with the two of you,” McCoy said. “Some of the people here are leaving in a few days, and I think you should go with them.”

“Where are they going?” Jim asked. The pastry tasted good, nutty and not too sweet. In Spock’s mind, he saw that it was called _kreyla_ , a traditional Vulcan morning repast.

“I remember you saying you’d leave Earth tomorrow, if you could,” McCoy said softly. “The question is if you were serious, kid.”

Jim stared at him, the _kreyla_ in his hand forgotten. Leave Earth. The two words alone seemed to hold all the magic in the universe, and here was McCoy, asking if he had been _serious_.

“Yeah,” he said, a small, disbelieving laugh in his voice. “Yeah, I was serious. Are you saying you have a ship?”

“More than one,” McCoy said. “We have a number of shuttles hidden in secret ports, waiting to take people into space. One of our ships will rendezvous with them out there.”

“And then? Where do we go?”

Spock looked at him, and although his face was calm, his eyes shone with excitement and happiness and all the things Jim felt in his own heart.

“Vulcan,” Spock said. “We are going to Vulcan.”


	24. Epilogue

Epilogue

 

_From: Halovaya – The Journey. An Autobiographical Novel._

_By S’ler T’Joan McCoy T’Lys-kan_

_Translated from Vulcan into English by Nyota Uhura_

In those early days, before T’Khasi’s fleet had become strong enough to face the Earth armada in battle, any escape to the stars had to be undertaken in stealth. Our shuttles launched in the deep desert or the rain forest, well hidden from human eyes and human sensors. The first of us to board these vessels had to travel there by foot, often a long and arduous journey.

It may be hard to imagine, these days, what it meant for these travelers when they set eyes on the ship that would take them back to the Home World. One of the first ships sent by the Elders of T’Khasi was the _Storilaya_ , or _Enterprise_ , as our human allies called it. (To them, the ship was female – she, they would call her, and although it is an illogical custom, many of us _V’tosh sashasolau’ar_ [Vulcans in exile] began to use the same pronoun).

Although I was no more than 4.12 years old, I clearly recall my first encounter with James T. Kirk and S’chn T’Gai Spock, the two men who would change the history of Earth and T’Khasi both. They arrived in the safe house my mother administrated, and like many others found temporary shelter there. Imagine, if you will, a young man who has not quite outgrown the ungainliness of human puberty, and a Vulcan at his side, of slender built and marked by his years in human captivity. They were _telsu_ [bonded] even then, my father remembers.

They were with one of the first groups to board the _Storilaya_ , and I recall Sa-mekh’s excitement when the call came in of their safe arrival (I request my Vulcan readers not to judge my father – to him, as to most humans, a free expression of emotion comes naturally). My parents did not leave Earth back then, and it was only many years later – after The Liberation, as the humans call it – that my mother first set foot on the planet that was hers by birthright. They stayed in contact with Spock and Kirk, however, and Kirk became one of my father’s closest friends over the years. When Kirk was wounded in one of the final battles before The Liberation, it was my father who operated on him – and it was I who contacted Kirk’s bondmate and informed him that the captain would live.

Perhaps my most lasting memory of Kirk and Spock occurred in those early days, when our people were still enslaved on Terra and T’Khasi had only just begun preparing for battle. My parents had decided that I, along with the other children in the safe house, was to leave and board one of the ships to the Home World. They feared detection, and rightly so – a few months later, the Terran police discovered the hiding place. My mother escaped only narrowly, unlike many others who were killed or returned to slavery.

The prospect of leaving my parents indefinitely distressed me (my Vulcan readers may forgive me, considering that I was only 9.34 years old at the time). Seyek, one of my mother’s close acquaintances, accompanied us children to the shuttle, but he had duties to return to, and could not come with us to the ship that was waiting in orbit around Mars. The vessel had been set to autopilot, and we were alone, a small group of young children on their way into the unknown. We did our best to honor Surak’s teachings, but we had been sent away from our families and, indeed, the only home we had ever known, hostile though it was. Surak himself may have experienced some disquiet in our situation, and I do not intend to blaspheme.

It took 20.56 hours for the shuttle to reach its destination. As for our first sight of the _Storilaya_ – my father would say ‘I’ll never forget it’, but he is human and as such does not possess eidetic memory. Be that as it may, we all gathered at the window to watch as the ship seemed to grow larger in the distance. The people of T’Khasi had built it, and it was different from the human technology we were used to – there were sleek curves where humans put straight lines, and rounded corners where humans expected edges. And, to use a human expression, for I am my father’s daughter as much as my mother’s – she was beautiful.

Our shuttle docked without problems, and we children stood closely together, seeking comfort in each other’s presence. We did not know what the future held for us, or whether we would see our parents again. The world we had left behind had taught us that the universe was not kind to Vulcans. We were afraid.

The airlock opened, and we held onto each other, awaiting our fate. A young human man stepped into our view. He wore a garb typical of civilian spacefarers, and far more importantly to us, carried a plate of something so inherently and traditionally Vulcan that it alleviated some of our distress immediately.

“You kids want some _kreyla_?” were the words James T. Kirk used to greet us.

He and Spock took us to our quarters, and remained with us for the entire journey. They taught us about the world that would become our home – provided us with books and schoolwork and games, although Spock always insisted on calling them ‘intellectual pursuits’, as is proper. They gave us _kaasa_ and _naric_ and _pir mah_ to eat, and Kirk smiled when we asked for more. And when we arrived at T’Khasi forty days later, we were no longer afraid. We knew we were home.

Spock and Kirk, then in their early twenties, had made their own home among the stars, and it is where they remained.

Like Spock, I am a child of two worlds, and as such, my emotions are not always easily reigned in. I am not ashamed, however, to say that I am glad to have met these two men.

If nothing else, they have given me hope.

 

The End

 

_You may write me down in history_

_With your bitter, twisted lies,_

_You may trod me in the very dirt_

_But still, like dust, I’ll rise._

_[...]_

_Just like moons and like suns,_

_With the certainty of tides,_

_Just like hopes springing high,_

_Still I’ll rise._

* * *

Well, this is it :)! As always, I love to hear what you think!

 

 

 


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